Happy Birthday Mr. Dog

NOTE: this was written yesterday, before I realized I forgot to post a Bleat. So it’s a day behind. But there’s a Diner; links at the bottom.

Today’s snow photo, taken at the parking lot by my daughter’s karate school:

That’s the result of plows shoving the snow into mountains, not natural accumulation. But still. Criminey.

I’m peeved. Cheesed. There’s no reason for this irritable mood. Probably started when it took 45 minutes to get food from a Chinese take-out, and only then because I was standing at the counter, waiting to place an order, and they kept answering the phone and taking their orders. I demand you wait on me so I can completely forget this moment when I call you on the phone for an order, and you put me on hold for longer than I personally deem necessary!

And it wasn’t very good. For some reason they use real white chicken in the garlic chicken, and greasy dark nodules of butt-meat for the chicken w/ kung pao sauce. Perhaps nerves were already shredded by the din at the karate dojo; some sort of spiky little headache formed when the kids were engaging in Horseplay and Hijinks, as they will, but did so with cerebellum-liquifying shrieks. There was a three-year-old boy who was quite cute, though; he had two action figures, which he insisted were ninjas, and he called one Frakjaw. (Turns out it’s a minifig.) And might I add that LEGO minifigs are one of those things that leaves me absolutely cold. I know everyone on the internet who is deeply involved with things that are Memes and are Going Viral and are Mashups is supposed to have a soft spot for minifigs, but no. The Brickipedia site linked above is obviously written by people who are older than ten; you contemplate with horror the idea that real adults, or least men who are putatively adults inasmuch as they could be drafted, spend time creating a deep, complex wiki about LEGO.

You there! Your hobby! Stop! I disapprove!

Oh, I l know what set me off. I got in the car today, backed out of the garage, gunned ‘er down the driveway, and HO THERE: a wall of boulders left by the plows that made a second pass. I do not know how they can make no passes for three days, then two in 24 hours. So I shoveled the boulders for ten minutes, and believe me: these were Hercules gonads.

Anyway. Column to write. Back in a bit.

Okay, it’s mostly done. This leaves me an hour for the novel. As I noted before, the Difficult Middle isn’t difficult at all, but I still fear an editor will grow impatient with 800-word character studies about the different styles of playing “Asteroids.” It almost feels like I’m cheating when I write this; almost everyone is based on someone I knew, and they come to life when I write, giving the entire enterprise the feeling of a dream where the dead have returned and behave as though they never went away.

A squirrel – and there’s one, recognizable by a wound he incurred on his right flank – has spent most of the day busting his teeth on the bird feeder. The first few times I tapped on the window he got that inimitable squirrel FREAK OUT expression and flung himself into the air, trusting a branch would break his fall; eventually he realized I was behind some strange magic force field, and could not reach him. So he just gave me the furry eyeball while he worked.

I stopped bothering him. Squirrels have to eat too. The other day I dumped an entire bag of expired Cheerios over the fence, and I’ve no idea if the woodland creatures feasted and made merry; I certainly hope so. The dog smelled the Cheerios – deaf, eyes gone, but the nose is like a radio that can pick up Moscow from the tip of South America – and he went over to the fence, and tried to get the Cheerios by digging under the wood. As far as he was concerned, he might never eat again. Stock up. Seize the day.

This from a dog who’s not only become insistent on sharing supper – the inevitable result of wifely indulgence of that pleading face – but has taken to upbraiding me with whines and barks if I do not make supper when the sun is at a particular angle. He’ll walk into the kitchen, look around, note the absence of meal preparation, complain through his nose, go to his pillow, drop down and grunt. You should see the reception we get if we eat out and come home late. He’s furious. MAKE EXTRA GOOD WET FOOD BE HERE NOW. This is the price we pay for infantilizing dogs, making them permanently dependent puppies, but at least he’s still interested. Bounced out the door for his walk today. Made his way up the stairs by himself.

Counting backwards from the day I got him and his age at the time: he’s 16 this week. Happy birthday, Jasper.

It’s been a while since he chased squirrels, but as they say, with age comes wisdom.

Another maxim: fear of God may be the beginning of wisdom, but I would also include the realization that one doesn’t need to own the complete 50th anniversary Phil Silvers DVD set. Having a few episodes on hand, sure. But my experience with collecting old TV shows has taught me something quite interesting: I’m really not interested in collecting old TV shows. It is sufficient to have a few salient examples for reference, but to watch?

An article in today’s Strib highlighted mid-century modern collectors who live in houses full of Petrie-era decor. I love that stuff too, but I’d never be able to shake the feeling I was living in a set I’d designed to bring back the warm happy feelings of footy-jammy childhood. It would all seem like pretend and make-believe. So it’s different that my house is all Arts and Crafts? Can’t the mid-century lovers likewise be making an aesthetic choice? Yes, I suppose so. But it’s too close. It’s difficult to separate the aesthetic from the emanations of the penumbra: a more optimistic time, more confident, sharper, cleaner, et cetera. At the same time I’d bet the people who bedeck the manse with amoeba tables and Danish modern reject most of the prevailing attitudes of the overculture in the same era. I mean, if you entered their house, said “got an ashtray?” and asked the nearest female to make you a drink – horrors.

I’m well aware of the egalitarian ideas behind my furniture, and the marketplace failure it suffered, and I don’t care, because it just looks clean and rational. It was subversive then; it’s traditional now, having passed from one state to the other simply by the application of time. At least I don’t feel like I have to dress up in 1910 clothing to live here; if I lived somewhere that was all Dick Van Dyke I’d feel obligated to wear cool bowling shirts and skinny-tie suit ensembles. But it is interesting to see the occasional nod to the 50s and pre-hippie 60s, and admit the era had some merits. No one can possibly make a brief for restraint and societal cohesion, of course, so they celebrate the end tables and the lamps with ceramic panthers.

Today: a few more Big Tiny Little album covers! I love this site. Start here – a repeat, but it sets up the new stuff. Includes a music track of surpassing peculiarity. Also, Los Angeles 1941. See you around! And if you listen to the Dennis Miller show, I’ll be on at some point. First time; hope there’s a second. Have a grand day.

Oh! Diner. MP3 here.

And lest we forget: 50 sci-fi Crapfests continues, here.