Hair of the Dog

For the last four months Sasha has been chewing on her leg. I noticed it early on because of the little naked patch. What is weird is that I can't catch her doing it. I keep finding little black hairs laying around that aren't curly, so I know they don't belong to Mark. Anyway we took her to the vet, who gave her a shot and some pills. Two months later and Sasha now has both legs denuded of hair. So today it was back to the veterinarian's office for another shot, more pills, and a lecture about how fat we've allowed her to get. Sasha, not the veterinarian. The veterinarian is quite lean.

An odd thing I noticed while in the waiting room at the vet's office, was that my pinky finger was hurting. I sat there massaging it and I noticed that my pinky finger is bent. There is a very noticeable bend at the first knuckle. Is that normal, what does it mean? I don't remember smashing it, or breaking it, or hurting it in any way. In fact now that I look more closely I think my forefinger is bent too. Not nearly as much, but it does have a little bend to it. Much like the rest of me, it's a little bent.

Just a Little Off the Top, or Until My Ears Start Burning

There are some things that you can say to anyone; non-offensive things, small talk. Then there are the things some people say in front of others that might be a bit over the top, to get peoples attention. Occasionally you will run across somebody who has no filter; a guy or girl who has no barrier erected between their twisted mind and their mouth. They go too far regularly.

Yesterday I got my hair cut. I've been going to the same barber for the last few years. He's okay, nothing special, but he happens to be one of those people without a filter. Unfortunately what is going on in his brain is not very pretty, and he loves to share it with everyone in the barber shop. Most of what he told me yesterday I cannot print here. It was filthy. Here is just a sample. He told me about how his mother thinks he should quit drinking. He said that he wouldn't quit drinking unless his doctor told him to, and that he has never told his doctor about how much he drinks, just so that the doctor won't tell him to quit.
"I know I drink too much." He loudly told everyone in the shop.
"You know you do stupid things when you drink." replied a customer.
"Oh, don't exaggerate."
"Exaggerate, what about the time you left the Rawhide Bar buck naked? You went all the way home without a stitch of clothing on."
"Oh yeah. How did I do that? I woke up the next morning, and I couldn't find my clothes anywhere. The last thing I remember was standing on the bar, taking my clothes off, and some guy.....  "

So why do I keep going back to this barber shop? Well, the stories can be kind of interesting, but the real reason is that the haircuts are only ten dollars. It's the cheapest place in town. Yep, that's me, dirty and cheap.

"...where the wind comes sweepin' down the plain."

A couple of blocks west of Oak Park Avenue, between 171st and 173rd Streets. August 23, 1956.

My dad did one thing before he died that he shouldn't have done. He had a house built for him and my mom without a basement. Ever since we were kids I remember my mom being very afraid of tornadoes, and at the slightest hint of a storm we were always herded into the basement. Now my mom has to sweat it out every time there's a warning. There would be only one problem even if she did have a basement now. Her Hoveround wouldn't navigate those stairs very well.

I feel so bad for anybody who has to live through such a natural disaster. Hurricanes are bad enough, but at least we have ample warning. I have witnessed two tornadoes that hit my home town of Tinley Park, and I have to say they are a powerful sight. Beautiful, and terrifying at the same time. Hopefully our stubborn legislators won't screw around with the poor folks in Oklahoma, and make sure they get relief a bit faster than they did for New Jersey after Hurricane Sandy.

The Volkswagen Chronicles; Before I Grew Up

1954 Beetle

I am on the Illinois Tollway with my brother in his 1954 Volkswagen. The little bug is whining along at sixty miles per hour.
"Hey Dave, look at that.", I say as I point out the window.
"Is that a tire rolling down the highway next to us?"
"That's not just a tire. It's the entire...  "
Clunk, grindddddddddd......
"Wheel!"
I have to give it up to my brother. He guided that three wheeled Beetle to a perfect stop, just feet from the drop-off to the road below.

1964 Beetle

A typical summer evening, out cruising my home town with my cousin in his 1964 Volkswagen. Part of our cruising routine was getting toasted on pot. That evening we decided to smoke as we drove around the country roads just outside of town.
"Fwsssssst...  hack, hack, hack."
"Hey, pass that over here."
"Sure, here, take it." I said as I passed the joint back over to my cousin. It's funny how time slows down when you're stoned. I looked out the windshield of the little car, and thought that for sure my cousin knew we were entering a hairpin turn. As the yellow caution sign with the dogleg arrow on it slowly got closer and closer, I tried to warn him.
"Uh, slow it down man. This is a very sharp....  "
It was like rolling down a hill in a giant tin can with the sounds of crumpling metal and my cousin's curses all mixed together. Out the front window I watched as the horizon swirled around and around until we came to rest at the bottom of a little ravine.
"You boys alright?"
Out my side window I could see a pair of feet. It was a nearby resident.
"I'm okay, I think."
From the rear window-well I heard the voice of my cousin, "Owww... ouch. My arm hurts."
The best part of a Volkswagen Beetle is that you can roll it sideways down a hill and then just flip the thing back over, and drive away.

1966 Karmann Ghia

In the summer of 1972 my cousin and I delivered a car to California, from Illinois. For the trip back to Illinois we borrowed a car from some girls we had met in Berkeley. It was a beautiful 1966 Volkswagen Karmann Ghia, and the girls were a couple of idiots who trusted the first hippies they met in California. To finance our trip to California, my cousin had a plan. He stuffed a pound of primo west coast pot in the spare tire, up front next to the fuel tank. Twenty four hours into our non-stop drive back to Illinois, while my cousin napped in the passenger seat and I drove, we ran out of gas on Interstate 80 near Atlantic, Iowa. Luckily for me an Iowa State Trooper had been behind us for some miles. Officer Friendly pulled up behind us as our little Volkswagen sputtered to a halt on the shoulder.
"Is everything alright ma'am?"
As I turned to the officer he corrected himself, "I'm sorry, I mean sir." (I had very long hair)
I explained the situation, and the policeman graciously gave us a gallon of gas. My cousin finally awoke from his nap just as the trooper was pouring the fuel into the tank, which was right next to the spare tire, which had a pound of highly illegal marijuana stuffed in it.

It's things like that, that keep me from becoming another vindictive asshole. I don't believe in the courts charging juveniles as adults. I don't believe in throwing everybody in jail for stupid decisions they may have made in their youth. Having made so many bad choices in my life that ultimately had no consequences at all for me, has made me more tolerant of other's mistakes.  After all, that cop could have noticed something wasn't quite right about that tire. That nearby resident who helped us roll the Beetle back on it's feet so we could drive out of the ditch, could have called the police to report two stoned kids. No, stupid luck is no way to go through life, but I'm glad I've had it.

Please Pass the Imodium

The other day, before taking in War Horse, we ordered some Chinese food.
"Mark, this stuff tastes kind of funky."
"What is that?"
"It's called General Tso's wontons."
"Well if they don't taste right, don't eat any."
"I'm gonna eat one more... uh huh, funky. Very funky."

I should have known the next morning, when Chandler barfed one of those wontons up in the middle of the street, that things weren't right. Sure enough, by late in the afternoon, the day after eating those funky wontons, I was spending more time on the pot than in front of the television. It was horrible. It was like somebody had connected a garden hose to my culo and turned it on. All evening, and late into the night, I was running back and forth to the bathroom. I was dehydrated and weak by the time I got up at 1:30 in the morning to make one more trip. As I stood there in the dark struggling to get on the toilet before I exploded, things started to get fuzzy. I knew that feeling, I was fainting. When I came to, my head was in the shower, my arm was twisted around into a pretzel, and I still felt that ominous pressure in my gut. I lay there like a beached whale calling out for Mark to come and help me. For five minutes I called out for help as blood spurted out of my elbow. Slowly I dragged myself closer to the door, too weak to get up off the floor. Now I don't fault Mark for not waking up right away, but my beloved dogs. Those two little animals that I feed, that I walk, whose poop I pick up, who can hear a bag of pretzels open from a mile away, did not get out of bed to see why I was calling for help.

My doctor has me on Cipro now and I’m not allowed to eat any of my favorite foods. Apparently if you screw up your innards you are only allowed to eat the crap your mom used to feed you when you were six months old. I do know I won't be eating Chinese food for a long time.

Wart Hoarse

Sometimes Mark's thick New York/New Jersey accent does present some problems for me.
"Alan, I bought tickets for Woarse next Tuesday."
"Tickets for what?"
"Woarse, the play."
"Woarse? I don't understand what you're saying. Say it a little more slowly Mark."
"War Horse, War Horse."
"War Whores? Is that one of those plays that they put on in a tiny, dirty little storefront theater? Is it going to involve a bunch of unattractive, naked people?"
"No you idiot, War Horse, like the movie we saw last year."
So that is where I was this past Tuesday evening. Sitting in the Broward Center Theater watching War Horse.

"Psst, Mark. This is the worst Broadway musical I've ever seen."
"It's not a musical, it's a play. Now hush..."
Mark was right, it wasn't a musical at all. There were a couple of songs in it, but it was most definitely a play. A three hour long play. But it wasn't just a play, it was also a puppet show. They had puppet birds, puppet horses, and even a puppet fence. The only problem was you could see the puppeteers.
"Psst, Mark. Who are all those guys hanging around the horse?"
"They make the horse move. You aren't supposed to watch them. Only watch the two characters talking. Pretend the other guys are invisible."
"Why are there a bunch of guys standing around the fence then?"
"Same thing, they move the fence around. Don't pay any attention to them."
"Well this is the worst damn puppet show I've ever seen, and I used to watch Howdy Doody. I know how puppets are supposed to work, and this ain't it."

I have to admit, by the second act I was getting used to all the extra people on stage, and I got into the story. In fact, by the end of the last scene, when the kid was reunited with his horse Joey, I was bawling like a little baby.
"Alan, are you crying?"
"Shut up, and let's get out of here before the lights come up."
"I can't believe you're crying. It really wasn't that good."

Sod Buster

I have found that I can't let my attention stray for even a minute when walking my dogs. The other night while taking our evening stroll, Chandler and I met up with Buster the pit bull and his nice owner, Lisa. Buster and Chandler have been friends for a few years now, but all that went out the window when Chandler spotted some fresh meat in the middle of the street. While Lisa and I were chatting, a sudden skirmish erupted as both dogs tried to claim a large, flattened lizard. As both dogs snarled at each other, Lisa and I struggled to drag them away from this tempting treat. At home I can stick my hand right in front of Chandler and remove his food bowl, so I was shocked to see him become so food aggressive.

Sasha has her own peculiarities that I have to watch out for when I take her for her evening toilette. Yesterday Sasha's deal was eating grass during her walk. Before I realized what she was doing she managed to get a good belly full, and within ten minutes after we got home she barfed up a large wad of it in the kitchen. Of course this caused Mark to start screaming and retching, "Oh my god that's disgusting... barf.. puke... aackkkkk...."  That wasn't really the worst part of Sasha's sudden desire to eat like a cow. That came this morning when she tried to poop and a long strand of grass got stuck in her butt hole. After a short while hoping that she'd be able to eject the offending bit of sod, I did what any good dog owner would do. I grabbed it and pulled. It was very long, and caused Sasha to let out a little yelp. My only regret was that Mark wasn't there to see my heroic behavior. It's not that he loves to watch me do such dirty work, it's that I love to watch him watch.