When Life Hands You Lemons Get A New Dog

A few days ago I lost one of the coolest pets I've ever had. He was a dog and his name was Vlad, short for Vladimir. My old man. I don't know what to tell you beyond that as far as his physical appearance or as far as giving you a description. I have no idea what breed he was aside from a supposed part-pit bull as he had an extra set of molars in the back of his stinkiest of mouths. People have observed he looked like he was made of spare parts, mentioned he looked like a Muppet and recently (and affectionately) referred to as "scruffy."

While none of those descriptions are off the mark, Vlad was obviously more to me. He showed concern when I was sick (a dog psychologist will tell you he was trying to take over after sensing my apparent weakness and while I'm sure there's a nugget of truth to that assessment, I know Vlad genuinely cared), looked like Sam Elliot at various points of the year when his coat grew in (Roadhouse Sam Elliott when his coat grew out for the winter, Hulk Sam Elliott when he was shorn in he spring and The Big Lebowski Sam Elliott during the inbetween times.) Vlad also had very kind eyes and was very fond of smaller dogs. Whenever someone would bring a small dog over and they'd get run of the place, Vlad would follow them around the house to make sure they were staying out of trouble. Vlad was also a drinking buddy who would drink India pale ale out of my hand and he, like many if not most dogs, was a notorious mooch who used his previously mentioned eyes to prey on your sympathies while you made yourself a sandwich. And of course we'd also walk around the backyard at night when I got home from work.

Like all greats, Vlad was not meant to last. Granted he was 12 or 13 when he went and had a damn fine run, but he had hip displasia since he was 6 months old. This didn't stop him from jumping and coming this close (I know you can't see this but run with it) to tearing the throat out of some drunken jag who tried to get handsy with my future wife the day after she adopted Vlad. His medication regimen turned him into a creature of habit because you weren't giving him meds, he was getting treats. And they worked for a while but between his displasia, inevitable arthiritis, serious weight loss (think of a hairy Lindsay Lohan) and a freshly diagnosed and pretty much inoperable tumor (let's face it, a few grand in surgeries with no guarantees on a dog in his golden years isn't a wise investment--especially when you compound it with the suffering of recovery and the animal's inability to understand that you're somehow putting them through all that for their own good), Vlad's check was in the mail. And the other morning that check was cashed.

Vlad had had trouble getting up on his own. We could tell he was hurting but his mood was fine. We'd have to lift him up to get his back legs going but that last time was a no go. Or so my wife tells me. I fell asleep on the couch the night before, came to bed and just kind of walked past him in a sleepy stupor. Then my daughter (she's almost 18 months old and won't sleep in the crib) and I wake up 3 hours later and my wife told me she had to put him down.

At first I was mad that I didn't get to be there when he went. Not to get creepy here, but seeing the corpse of every pet I've ever had to put down has helped me deal with their passing. I look at their eyes and I know they're gone. There's nothing there. There's just nothing there, they're in a better place and that's that. Then I realized my wife had Vlad twice as long as I did and even though we knew his time had come it was probably way harder on her and I got over myself. And truth be told, if I was there when he was put down I would've been a trainwreck. So at least I was spared that. But not seeing him look over the gate when I got home from work that night was damn rough.

Then there's this turkey. This little turkey of a dog who doesn't even have a name yet. My wife had been talking forever about getting a little dog. I've got nothing against small dogs in the sense that they last longer than the big ones and as long as they're not poodles or chihuahuas names after designer douchebags who are more accessory than pet. And I didn't want another dog right now. And 18-month old daughter who recently learned to climb on just about anything was all I could take right now.

My wife has always had a policy of getting over losing a pet by getting a new once quickly. Then she made the point of our other depressed and despondent dog, Bela. (Named after Lugosi, not Fleck before you ask.) She'd known Vlad all her life and even though both of them were old they had to enjoy each others company. She's been lying in the corner of the wash room for 2 days and it wasn't going to get better. And my wife's argument is that Bela needs something to do. Even if it is disciplining a smaller dog. My wife talked about a chihuahua she saw on the news through the pound and was going to see about getting it. She's got a lot of experience with dogs Apparently this dog is perfectly behaved around my daughter, has no food aggression and is coming home Monday afternoon.

Then my wife texts me this picture. Like I can or will argue with this.

Laughter Is The Best Medicine But Madness Tastes Better

Okay,

Still not a big proponent of sticking a random video clip in place of a reasonably well-executed thought. But when faced with literate principles or my love for Tim and Eric Awesome Show Great Job! it's kind of a tough call. Tonight I'll do both, presuming my other blog counts as a reasonably well-executed thought.

Dear Jon,

"I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it anymore. Just kidding..."

Dear Jon Gosselin,

I would like to start this (open) letter to you by stating that I've never raised my hand to a woman. As most men will admit, there was that one who almost got me to change this policy but at the end of the day I was a stronger pers--

Look. Your wife is a total bitch. No, she's not a bitch. She's a Grade-A cunt. I don't like the word and I don't really like using it, but I was driven to it. You are married to a cunt, Jon. But I'm sure you know this. Now I don't watch or even pretend to be interested in the show in which the two of you and your brood of 8 star, Jon and Kate Plus 8, and every time I did watch it I was bored to tears.

I don't know which of your kids is the sweet one, which is the evil one or which one is the dramatic one. I've got my own kid and in my opinion and I know this is going to sound coarse, but rarely, just sometimes I have enough trouble following my own kid let alone your entourage of ankle-biting beasts. Your family's show is boring to the point where I'd rather watch the 86 year-old janitor clean the senate floor on C-SPAN. Or flies fuck. Maybe both. You guys went to an amusement park and getting all 8 of your kids ready was a total production. Who gives a shit? I had dinner with some friends a few nights ago and getting all my ducks in a row so my daughter wouldn't have a meltdown at a shitball chain restaurant was a production. Granted, 8 is a higher number than 1, but that doesn't make it any more interesting. Cry me a fucking river already.

Fortunately, my wife doesn't make me watch the war crime that she and the TLC executives like to call a TV show so the whole thing's easy for me to forget.

But I do watch The Soup. And over the past weeks they've worked a clip of your nagging cow you (I hope reluctantly) call a wife emasculating you over things as simple as coupons and lambasting your sorry ass for minor and negligible commentary.

Now this isn't to say I'm letting you off the hook here completely, Jon. Did you cheat on her at some point, Jon? Did you hit her already and some dirtbag biker brother of hers teach you a lesson? Do you owe her old man money? Come on, man! I'm seriously running out of reasons to think of why you'd voluntarily do this other than you're being a complete and total pussy.

Look at that, man. You were there. You neglected one fucking word and she sliced your balls off on national television. P L E A S E tell me you're somehow playing on her apparent and abundant neuroses. Tell me you don't flush the toilet or that you rub your bare ass on her pillow when she's in the shower. Wash your balls with her special soap? Do you bust a nut into her shampoo? Tell me you do that and I'll tear this blog posting down right now and have a reserved space on my couch for that day when she finally pushes you over the edge and that dumb look you've got on your face when she demolishes you turns into a war face!

If you're not getting some secret revenge that you can smile upon when you're alone you need to thug up, son. Yes, she's probably tough because she pooped out 8 kids but she's nothing a few storeys, a minivan accident or a set of brass knuckles couldn't take down. Like my boy Jake says, you need to thug up son. I know you feel trapped because you've got not only 1 kid, but 8 kids. Divorces are pricy, but look at it this way, if she gets sole custody she's not going to have time to get her skanky crayola-head hairdos done anymore. She looks like ass now, imagine what ass she'd look like down the road. She's going to live in sweatpants. And imagine all the sympathy tail you'll get. Hell, you've probably got an army of barren milves ready to take care of you and the kids every other weekend. Then you're worried because both you and Broadzilla quit your jobs to do the show and its a whole co-dependent mess, blah, blah, blah. I get it, I get it. And as far as your kids not understanding? The first 4 seasons of your shitball show are out on DVD. I think they'll understand when they get older.

Look, you don't want to knock out one of her teeth for me, that's fine. But think of the kids...

Things I Really, Really Hate Right Now

This Goddamned Thing

The mother of my wife's main client (not as glamorous as it sounds, I promise) bought this for my daughter for her first birthday. Initially it was cute the way my daughter would press the buttons randomly and even do a little dance when it would start playing music. Then my daughter eventually started hitting buttons obsessively. Feverishly even. And in many instances it would be the same button. For example, it you hit that green heart button underneath the steering wheel, Winnie the Pooh will say, "I believe Piglet is hiding under the heart key." Then some music plays through the shitty speaker and I pray for death.

But with my daughter, who loves to press the same button to create an external mantra, it's "IbelieveIbelieveIbelieveIbelieveIbelieve..." It's enough to lose your goddamned mind. And I usually lose it when she hits those buttons when I try to watch 1, I repeat 1 20-something minute episode of The Soup or what the hell ever is on the DVR. I usually push the goddamned thing over and it stops.

I've made my disdain for this toy known around the house and normally my wife will make me feel like an asshole for hating it because my daughter loves it. Especially now that she's walking, attempting to ride, stand upon and push it around the house. But even my wife hates this goddamned thing. She actually asks my daughter, who can respond in nothing but a dozen words she can use in context and random chortling, if we can throw it out. And of course she usually walks over to and starts playing with it.

To prove I'm not a total dick, I will share one thing I love to do with this goddamned thing. My daughter has recently taken to riding this thing but her legs aren't long enough where she can push herself yet. So Da-Da pushes her. From one end of the small, but modest house to the other end. And I hang onto her as I push her briskly through the house, but I like to pretend that my daughter is a tiny Batman (or Batgirl if you want to get technical) on the Batpod. I'll do the sound effects and my daughter gets a kick out of it. So when we get back to where we started I'll aim the Batpod, I mean goddamned thing toward a box she likes to sit in (that's right, sit in--kids are weird) and lift her up into the air ejector seat-style while the goddamned thing careens into the box. Boom!!!

The Fact That Fight Club Doesn't Really Do It For Me Anymore

I've made myself a vow to not use the phrase back in the day after I use it this one last time.

Back in the day I was all over Fight Club. I saw it 4 times in its opening week and maybe 10 times during its theatrical run. Granted, I was 24 at the time but that may explain why Fight Club spoke to me in what seemed to be crystalline eloquence at the time. Compound that with David Fincher's brilliant direction, Brad Pitt's enigmatic charisma with which he played Tyler Durden, Edward Norton's deflated everyman quality, Helena Bonham Carter in general and damn near everything else about the movie. Not to mention what I thought at the time was a killer story.

Then I watched Fight Club again a few nights ago for the first time in maybe 5 or 6 years. I'd officially burnt out on it a week after it came out on DVD so I definitely needed a rest from it. But watching it again after a long Fight Club sabbatical I finally realized what a pretentious movie it is. And Jesus Fuck, does Fight Club love itself.

Norton's narration was smug, the propaganda Pitt spewed was often nonsensical and the screenplay gives itself way more credit than it deserves. Granted, Fight Club has its moments and has many of them. It just doesn't have as many as it thinks it has.

In the movie's defense, I have changed a hell of a lot since the last time I saw Fight Club. I'm now a husband and a father. I'm also a homeowner if that counts for anything. But most importantly, I've shed that overinflated sense of self-importance that this movie's audience and let's face it, cult thrive upon. I've also come to the conclusion that I not only am not, but never was interesting. Fight Club is still interesting and maybe even great from a filmmaking standpoint, but it definitely didn't hold up for me and definitely isn't as interesting as it thinks it is.

The Jonas Brothers

Do you really need me to go into this? Fine, I will. Look at them. Just look at them. I can forgive the fact that they're dressed like gay (and I mean that in the homosexual way, thank you) hipsters who can't pull it off but don't realize they can't pull it off. They're teenagers, so that miserable collectively brooding look on their dopey faces can get overlooked too. And truth be told, the fact that they look like they're defecating in this picture is vaguely endearing. I'd also like to mention I am in no way, shape or form jealous of the fact that millions of young girls who want to mount their allegedly abstinent asses. And since they're teenagers in a band, that band is going to suck. Singing about feelings, being Disney boy-whores, and dumping Hannah Montana. Badly. That's fine. I don't care about those things at all.

Before I get to what's really sticking in my craw is them showing up on Saturday Night Live and ruining the show. Alec Baldwin hosted and I've never seen a bad or boring episode with Baldwin hosting. Then the Jonas Brothers show up and shit the bed. And that skit with Baldwin as the lost Jonas brother, Gary wasn't funny.

Another reason I'm hating on these bitch boys is their co-butchering of Stevie Wonder's "Superstition" at the Grammys. Granted, Wonder's best days are behind him and the contrived pairing of and R&B legend with the current big thing didn't promise the definitive version of the song, but at least learn the fucking words to the song you shower of bitches! Stevie Wonder is blind, not deaf, you pube-headed fucks!

Now listen you gang of assclowns. You're Milli Vanilli, not the fucking Beatles. You're going to end up as a fucking punchline on some awful show that VH-1 hasn't even thought of thinking up yet. The world is waiting for you to get busted with a hooker, get caught with your wee-wee in some New Jersey glory hole, come out of the closet or just fucking die already. I'd invest more energy in hating you but I know once your 15 minutes is up, someone else will come along and take your place.

These Truck Balls Things

I know people who drive pickup trucks generally aren't known for their highbrow humor, but it's so incredibly hard for me right now not to rattle off half a dozen stereotypes about them. And if you're wondering exactly which stereotypes I'd be rattling off just think of the words you might be a redneck if or just watch Deliverance.

But how low-rent and classless do you have to be to actually hang a pair of rubber testicles from the tail end of your fucking Tonka truck? We get it, we get it. You're truck's got balls! We can tell from the muddy, muddy mudflaps and the fact that its a pickup truck. Oh, and the gun rack and the NRA sticker were a couple other subtle tells.

What did you pay for those things? $15? $20? I'm going to guess there are light-up ones out there and if you didn't drink half your unemployment check away the night before I'm guessing they would be adorning (that means hanging off of) your vehicle (truck) right now. But then again, old Sheriff Hunnicutt would be able to find you anywhere and one more DUI means you can only drive your truck to work during landscaping season! Remember when all those negros were wearing those light-up shoes when they'd steal TVs and that's how the cops found them? Well that's the same damn thing!

The Wiggles

The Wiggles are evil. Plain and simple. You can hate them but you can never fully justify hating them. Sure they're creepy, they're annoying and they sure as shit can't pronounce the letter R, but they beat the hell out of 98% the kids entertainment available today. But oooh! I hate them!

The costume, song and dance numbers are creepy as shit and get stuck in your head like a nasty, hairy piece of gum on your shoe. The people on the show are even creepier. Look at the one in purple. The one of questionable heritage. If you can't take the face he's making in this picture you should just burn your retinas out if you ever find out you're going to have a kid. Then look at big red on the other end. Look at that Lurch motherfucker. I keep waiting for this bastard to pop out of my hi-def TV and teabag me. I don't mind the one in blue too much but that prick in yellow. Oh, that motherfucker. How I hate that son of a bitch. I hate him singing, I hate his stupid dances and I hate his greasy head. But that face. I hate that fucking face of his.

But I hate The Wiggles because you can't hate them. Hating The Wiggles is like hating a kitten. Sure they piss on your shit, claw up your couch and maybe even whine all night, but you can't hate it. And its similar with The Wiggles. All they do is sing old lullabies, classic songs and the like. Nothing ADD or truly obnoxious, just... wholesome.

And isn't that worth hating?

Submitted For Your Approval...

Anyone who knows me knows that my addiction (I prefer the term hobby, but to each their own) to DVDs is legendary, even if in my own mind or in one room of my house. But recently I picked up The Twilight Zone: The Complete Definitive Collection. If you're a little slow on the uptake, that means everything. 28 discs encompassing 156 episodes and 5 seasons from 1959 to 1964 on CBS. That last sentence (especially the 28 discs and 156 episodes part) might have more than a few pairs of eyes popping out (but I'm guessing not) and heads being scratched, but let me start from the beginning.

The seed to acquire this beautiful mammoth was planted last summer on The 4th of July. As with most of the more noteworthy holidays, the Sci-Fi Channel ran a Twilight Zone marathon for dozens of hours at a time. I scrolled through my program guide, recorded the ones I wanted to see or revisit and spent any and all spare time over the following days and weeks watching them. And of course whenever something I get that excited and/or nostalgic crosses my path the first thing I do is check out Amazon to see how much I'd have to pay to add it to the private collection. Without dropping numbers, the word ouch crossed my mind and I put it on the when I win the lottery list and for the most part forgot about it.

Then comes New Year's Day. Sci-Fi runs another marathon and I recorded another several episodes and pretty much followed the same drill as I did the previous summer. Only this time a few small details changed. One of them being that my birthday was less than 2 weeks off. Obviously when you get older, no one gives a shit about your birthday outside of immediate family but my folks rarely disappoint. Another thing being that my friend was going to hook me up with what will be my 4th job with which only a few hours would take care of the rest of the asking price for the box set. The only other thing I'd need would be a little patience.

Until a couple weeks later. That box set was really sticking in my craw for a while at that point. And when that happens I keep checking the price on Amazon. If a cheap one was going in good condition from a seller with reliable feedback I could justify it. But things go the other way, too. For instance, when I checked it out, Amazon's price said currently unavailable.

Now I've worked retail for many years in a couple of different venues. And those words are never good. Generally the words currently unavailable mean that something's about to go out of print or be discontinued. And I've been on enough wild goose chases over the years looking for out of print items (let alone biggies such as this) to know you've got to strike while the iron is hot.

So I ordered the set, it showed up and it's magnificent. The packaging is great and the artwork incredible. But that I made the right decision moment for me came when I watched that first episode, in all its striking blacks and whites on my 42" flat-screen TV. Christ, they're beautiful. That right there made me forget that it would take me nearly half a year, watching an episode a day, to get through.

But today, just for the hell of it I decided to check out Amazon and see how much that set was going for. Guess what isn't currently unavailable anymore.

Yeah...

A Little Something To Get You Through Your Day

I'm not a big fan of sticking some random video in my blog as opposed to, I don't know, actually saying something. But this video from Tim and Eric Awesome Show Great Job disturbed me in the best possible way. Just felt like sharing...

Bi-Polar Moods and Unapologetic Inappropriateness.

Be forewarned: about 3 paragraphs into this blog I was bored to tears writing it. Perhaps this is because I've been dealing with this problem for so long. Maybe its because I dealt with a fresh case of it this very morning and I've been dealing with it for a better part of the day. But whatever the reason is, it's a whiny one. So my recommendation is unless you're incredibly and disturbingly interested in what I have to say, just walk away.

I'm going to tell you about a chronic problem I've got. It's not as interesting as peeing green, dealing with even more chronic stupidity or irritable bowel syndrome. (Which by the way I just refer to simply as farting.) No, my problem is one I've been dealing with for coming up on 2 years and that problem is clinically referred to as recurrent corneal erosion.

The Cliffs Notes Edition means that for one reason or another something is scraping away at my eye. Then when it tries to heal, usually in the middle of the night, it winds up melding to the inside of my eyelid at which point I wake up in pain. Picture about a dozen pins being shoved in your eye after getting maced while watching Joe the Plumber blow Tyler Perry. Oh, and Perry's dressed as Medea.

This corneal erosion only happens during the dry (as in non-humid) winters this shithole rustbelt town is oh so famous for. Humidifiers don't really work in case you're thinking of making a suggestion, but thanks for thinking of me. Aside from a steady diet of eydrops, a tiny tube of... eye vaseline and a shitload of finger-crossing nothing helps. And when it does flare up, my only relief comes from the charity of my optometrist fitting me in for an emergency appointment, doping my eye up with an anesthetic drop and sticking a contact lens on my eye that acts as a bandage. And that's the first part. Once the bandage is in and I experience a certain amount of relief, I start drowning my eye with eye drops. Oh, and it always seems to alternate from eye to eye. First it was the left. Then at some point it moved to the right. Left. Right. Left. Right. I forget how many times this has happened in the last 2 years but as of today we're back on the left eye.

Then there's the Cheap Old Man part of me that gets pissed about having to drop $15 every time I go there and every time I go for a follow up. And depending on how bad the... episode is, I've got anywhere from 1 to 4 follow ups.

You know what? I'm done. I'm done talking about this. There is no way I can talk about this in an interesting way or even a way that could possibly convince you (or myself) that I actually care. There's no humidity in the air in this assfuck town. And because gahd is bi-polar and we'll get 67 degree temperatures in the middle of February then 23 degree temperatures 2 days later this shit happens to me for like 5 months out of the year. Goddamn barometric pressure and shit! It happens, I piss and moan about the co-pays because I don't work F O U R jobs because I'm a fucking people person. I work four jobs because I've got a sense of responsibility in that old school a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do kind of way and because I didn't plan ahead.

I'm going to work like a dog or a slave (haven't figured that out yet) for the rest of my life because I do the majority of things in my life half-assed and because I'm a big proponent of the path of least resistance. I'm not even going to blame some bloated bureaucrat for fucking up social security because I ultimately know that all of my problems are my own.

So I'm just going to heal my eye this time and very much like the one optometrist I deal with for my appointments, just hope and pray it doesn't happen again. Until next winter. (But actually the other optometrist has a more proactive game plan for next week. So maybe there is an end in sight.) So now I'm really done talking about this.

I want to talk about something else instead. I want to talk about The Wrestler. Not even The Wrestler. Marissa Tomei. More specifically the scenes in this movie where she's damn near stark raving naked. I'm normally the kind of guy who just keeps my filthy little thoughts to myself when I see a fine as froghair woman but I was and am ready to pop (you take that any way you want to but I was thinking more along the lines of Scanners) when I saw her stripping in that movie. Tomei's going to be what, 45 this year? Goddamn, I'd love to meet her mother! Goddamn, I'd like to thank her mother! I'm not sure what had me turning into a werewolf first--her tits or her ass. And I feel like such a jag spewing all this nonsense. This isn't who I am. 99% of the time, more than 99% of the time I'm more interested in what's going on between a woman's ears than what's happening between her legs, but Tomei really put the whammy on me in this movie. Gahd bless America...!