11-19-20: Datacave in the basement

• Wake up a little groggy. I took an Advil PM to combat some recent light insomnia. Still in my system at 8am.

• Walked the dogs as wife was up late working and had an early morning meeting.

• Coffee, writing and Billy Collins on Facebook.

  • Billy Collins is a well-known American poet who, during quarantine, with the help of his wife, has begun a little video cast every day where he chats and reads a few poems. After anger-watching the news for the last few months this is a wonderful reprieve.

• Spend a good portion of the morning contacting other massage therapists to see what they’ll be doing tomorrow. Most are staying open, fyi.

• Three mile walk to get pet food for Cookie and people food for us. Beautiful walking weather. While walking east on Wrightwood I was accosted by a giant plastic bag, which didn’t dance with me ala American Beauty, unless the dancing was the Lambada, and if the Lambada were performed with an unwilling partner carrying five pound of Hills Science Diet for Digestion and Skin Health for small dogs.

• Sandwiches from Red Star, a local liquor store that recently installed a tiny deli. Get your booze and some well-constructed sandwiches all in one place. And most days, do you really need anything more than that?

• Some phrases I enjoyed from my online lecture today given here without context:

  • Datacave in the basement

  • H-factor

  • Clean data versus murky data

  • Etta Hulme: first female cartoonist for Disney

  • When the professor ignores the chat

  • That last one was just an observation

• Dinner: leftovers for wife, big salad for me.

• And then TV with a few cups of herbal tea and a small glass of bourbon.

• Good night 

• Update: it was two small glasses of bourbon. No regrets.

Scooby Dooby Joo: A poem

I wrote a few poems a while back after a Scooby Doo binge. Here’s the first one:

Scooby Dooby Joo

The Great Dane
Changed his name
At the suggestion of his agent

His new name rhymed
And his partner in crime
Sold dope to pay their rent

Their big break came
With fortune and fame
His life became a roller coaster

And no one even suspected
When the canine star elected
His titular snacks be baked kosher

Mop: A poem

I thought I saw a shaggy dog
Twisted in the middle of the road
And it made me sad
For the person or family
Who would have no distraction
During awkward holiday dinners

Until I got closer
And saw that it was just the head of a mop
And relief
But then relief was tsunamied away
By anxiety
For the janitor
Trying to wash floors
With just a stick

Ambulance: A poem

To answer your question
The words on the back of the ambulance
Said do not follow
So to answer your question
I don’t know how grandpa is doing

Fortress of Solipsism

I’ve been in a rut lately. Not a bad rut, but not an artistically satisfying one, either. I’ve been working out a lot, though. One of the trainers, my buddy Alex (a girl, a badass girl) has been teaching me to kick box, which has been great. I now feel like I could throw a decent punch if called upon to. Could I hold my own in an actual fight? Only if my opponent held up pads and told me exactly how to hit them. But it keeps the workouts interesting. I’ve also been working out with my other buddy Rebekah (also a girl, also a badass) who’s been taking me through some kettlebell techniques so I can eventually do the perfect Turkish get up.

All that being said, I haven’t been doing a lot of writing. And that’s been bothering me.

So, as many before me have done, I’m publicly (or as publicly as a blog that no one reads can be) throwing down a gauntlet. I’m about 140 pages into a new novel that I think will end up being around 230, 240 pages long. I’d like to have it completed by the end of summer. Which means getting my ass in gear and holding myself accountable.

The title is:

Abe Froman Jr.,

Buddhist Detective

It’s hard being vegan when your dad’s the Sausage King of Chicago

More as this story develops.

Back to you!

On losing Beatrice

This is from a while ago, but I figured if I’m going to start blogging again I should pick up where I left off…

This is going to be a sad, sappy one.

Our little girl, Beatrice, passed away at home Thursday (July 20, 2019) morning.  She was 16 years old, which is a good old age for a pug, but I still wasn’t ready for it.  But I was never going to be ready for it. She started getting sick Monday night, Wednesday we took her to the vet, and then Thursday she was gone.  She was kind enough to make that final decision for us, because as gutted as I feel right now I’d have to be peeled off the floor if I had to make that call.  

We didn’t mean to find her.  We were at the Printer’s Row Book Fair, and when I started thumbing through some comic books Jamie wandered off.  She came back a few minutes later and said there’s somebody you have to meet. She took me into a pet grooming place that was hosting an adoption event, a woman put this little dog into my arms, and she fell asleep with a sigh.  And I said now what do we do? The woman brought her for a home visit the next day, and then that was it. We had a dog. I was unemployed at the time, so I was home with her a lot. Beatrice bonded to me almost instantly, and me to her.  We were probably unhealthily obsessed with each other, but I don’t care, she was my favorite little thing in the world and I feel like a part of me is missing. I’m having phantom dog syndrome.

I once jokingly posted on Facebook that I loved my dog more than 90% of my Facebook friends.  The truth is that number was probably skewed in your favor. The truth is the entire goal of my day was to get everything done so I could get home to my dog, who up until a few days ago would come running to greet me at the door, often screaming in what I always assumed was delight, and then sit on my couch with my dog in my lap for the evening.  The couch kind of sucks now. I love these other two dogs, but they’re Jamie’s dogs. Bea was mine.  

As much as I cried doing it (okay, sobbed) it was nice scrolling back through all these pictures today.  I recently read this Kierkegaard quote:

Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.

I know he didn’t mean that I got to see my little pug age backwards while searching through Google photos, but that kept coming to mind while I was doing it.  And now I have to find a way to move forward without my dog.

Every time my dog sneezed I said bless you, because if I do get into heaven (big if) my dog had better be there waiting for me or I’ll start screaming at St. Peter like the waspiest woman in Starbucks who thinks she tastes dairy in her soy latte.  Let me speak to your manager. Fine, your son of manager.  

It goes without saying that however weepy I feel now I wouldn’t change a thing.  Great love equals great loss, right? Most people say that their greatest regrets involve not appreciating what they have when they have it.  I’m sure I’m guilty of that, too. But not with Bea. I truly appreciated her everyday. Whenever I tried doing one of those gratitude lists my dog was always top of the list.  And if I start feeling all Oprah-ish in the near future she will still be there. No regrets.

I’m sure someday I’ll be able to think of Bea without falling to pieces, but today’s not that day.  Today I get to wallow. And this sad stormcloud in my chest will probably remain there for a good long while.  But that’s fine. Missing her is the next best thing to being with her, right?

So goodbye, Bebe.  You were a good dog.  You were the best dog.  I’ll never stop missing you.