My New Year's Eve 2008

***All smiles! October 8, 2008***

One year ago I was in the midst of serious doggie sorrow. December 29, 2008 was the day Bernie was administered Valium, stupid fucking Valium, which as my language suggests really screwed her up for a week. This is even more significant since those 5+ days of Valium hell were part of her last ten days. That's not my point here, though.

You see, one year ago was a pretty damned sad time for me, and quite frankly, a lot of it I've pushed away when it has come to mind since. I would rather think of the thousands of brilliant days with Bernie. The flipside of a year ago's anguish is that within those final ten days there were some seriously beautiful, tender moments.

How Bernie and I spent New Year's Eve 2008 is one of my favorite examples of this.

The first couple days after that notorious vet visit, it was challenging to get her to eat her kibble/rice/salmon/hamburger/cheese "casserole" that had been her staple for a few months. In fact, I'm pretty sure she'd basically eaten nothing up to New Year's Eve, so for three days basically. That's uncomfortable for any living creature. Couple that with the fact she was still wobbly, Bernie and I were unquestionably going to spend New Year's Eve together.

So that we did.

When the clock struck midnight, Bernie and I were both on the kitchen floor. I had out peanut butter, hot dogs, dog treats, dog kibble, soft kibble, hamburger, chicken, milk, and who knows what else, all in an effort to get my girl to eat! It sucked, of course, but we made it fun. I created all sorts of combo platters for her to try. I'm sure her throat hurt like hell and/or she feared choking, but we got enough in her to tickle her belly and rest my mind. We laughed, she licked food from my hand, I squeezed morsels into her mouth. I pet her a lot, admired her, missed her already. We both loved every second of those couple hours, I was so proud of her courage not only then but throughout her life. It takes courage to be with me every day for 15 years, you know.

All the while that night, I knew how different one year from that day would be, that she wouldn't be here, and of course I wouldn't be on the floor feeding my beloved pooch. Given the circumstances I wouldn't have spent my New Year's Eve 2008 any other way. And of course, it's now one year from that day.

Happy New Year to Bernie and all.

Doggie Power

***A man can do a lot with a dog at his feet.***

Late March 1993 I loaded up my car and I moved to Beverly. Actually, 484 miles north of Beverly, to South Lake Tahoe, California. I simply had to go.

Car loaded up . . . I didn't want to go. I don't know if I cried on my first-ever day of school, but I cried this day. I didn't want to go. My parents, though, did what any good parents would do: They told me to shut up, follow-through with my plans, and make the best of it. You can always come back.

I never came back.

It was my Old-English Sheepdog, Poochie, and I who set out west. A boy and his dog. To get right to my point, I don't know if I ever would have planned such a move if I wasn't going to have a dog in tow. To this day, people are frequently amazed that I moved to California "all by myself."

I didn't move there by myself, I had my dog.

People say that it took balls to move like that. Maybe, but if you have a dog, it's a whole lot easier. You have a constant companion, someone you can bounce your thoughts off of--and they never ignore you or roll their eyes, "knowing" what you're going to say. You can always be silly with a dog, release your inner child at your whim. And sing, oh it's the best thing to sing, sing, sing to a dog. Venture out with your dog, conversation is struck quickly, especially with others who have dogs--though frankly, I'd probably rather talk to your dog than you. When you come home from a day or night of work or play, there's always a party waiting, no matter how long you were gone. You can nurture a dog, sort of like a parent to child. And a dog and its attentiveness help you sleep sound, protecting you, his or her master, like a parent does a child.

So, you see, it didn't take balls, it just took a dog.

A Hockey Tale

***Wayne Gretzky circa 1983***

Tonight, I went to the Minnesota Wild versus Edmonton Oilers hockey game. I live about 10 minutes on the busline from the Wild's home, Xcel Energy Center, so I hopped on, bought a ticket on the street for $25, and watched my first Wild game of the season. The game brought back one of my favorite hockey memories.

I've played hockey for 32 years and counting. During my childhood career in St. Louis, one of the ongoing highlights was playing before St. Louis Blues games at The Arena. It was great. You went in the players' entrance, dressed in one of the visitors' locker rooms, and played in front of 19,000 seats--albeit most of them empty. The thing I liked best about The Arena is that it had these soft, flexible boards and glass, so when you crashed into them they were loud and wiggled a ton. Plus, The Arena had the BEST nachos and pizza!

Anyway, I was a high school freshman in 1983-84, and I played for three teams that year, Webster Bantam AA, and both Webster Groves High School JV and Varsity. "Playing" on the latter that year meant I dressed for about half the games, and took the ice in about half of those, my appearance usually limited to getting creamed on my only shift of the game. I loved it!

So on February 21, 1984, the St. Louis Blues had a game versus the Edmonton Oilers. These were the big, bad Oilers--Coffey, Kurri, Messier, etc., and of course Wayne Gretzky (87 goals, 118 assists that season). The Oilers broke the New York Islanders stronghold on the Stanley Cup that year. So it was on this night that the Webster Groves JV squad I was a part of was scheduled to play in the tilt immediately before the Oilers - Blues. Yeah yeah, boy!

I have no idea whom we played nor who won, but I do remember the following.

About halfway through the first period, Wayne Gretzky came out of the visitor's tunnel and sat down to watch the game. He was by himself, about 15 rows up on one of the ends. He had on a sweet Oilers sweatsuit. Seeing him there I quickly realized, "Wayne Gretzky is watching me play." I'm smart like that. So between periods, I waved over Webster senior and varsity player Dan Holtzclaw, alerted him to the situation, and told Dan he should go over and sit by Gretzky. It took some persuasion, but Holtz did just that. He sat next to Wayne Gretzky and watched a Webster Groves High School JV hockey team.

Soon after, other Oilers filtered out of the tunnel and up into the stands, and eventually there were about a dozen taking in the game with Holtz and Gretzky, the former of which was the only who wouldn't be crowned a Stanley Cup Champion in three months time.

I asked Holtz after the game, "What did he say?" I remember two things: "Number 5 [on Webster] has too much tape on his ankles," (he did . . . always) and supposedly Gretzky said I made a nice pass, though I or Holtz may have made that up.

Regardless, Wayne Gretzky saw me play hockey. How cool is that?

The Wild won tonight, 3-1. Bernie, of course, was watching. I wonder if Gretzky was too.

Soul Food

***September 25, 2004***

Cool photo, so I think anyway. When Bernie was just two or three, I held open Bernie's mouth so a vet could take a peek at her chops, just because, and the vet asked, "Does she like to chew on rocks?" I said, "No. Sticks, but I've never seen her chew on rocks." Apparently, her molars were rounded off. Not sure why, but she sure did enjoy a good stick from time to time. I still have a couple of hers in the backyard now, maybe she'll get to 'em sometime.

I watched Oliver for three nights this past weekend, Beth was out of town. It was fun, good bonding time. It takes time to bond with a dog, to learn what makes it so cool. I digress on that subject, but I mentioned to Beth tonight that coming home to a dog is like coming home to a party, every time. Even better, when you have a furry friend, you can make a party anytime--or sometimes they'll make one for you when you least expect it. That's always good for the soul.

It's boring here now, at my house. I still haven't figured out what the heck most people do when they come home in the evening, for the six or so hours you have before you sleep. I mean, you can't go out raisin' hell every night of the week. I watch "Intervention" on Mondays, that's good for getting my weeks started off on a dark note. Really, though, what to do? No matter what I do and how long I do it, I end up being bored as hell for a spell. I was never bored with a dog.

Walking Bernie always put me in a good mood. It's cold here, right now really cold, but no matter how cold the weather and/or my mood, I would always make it a point to walk Bernie. A year or two after I moved here, I realized that my mood was always better after a walk, even a normal uneventful walk.

Fresh air is good for the soul. Dogs, even better.

Warmth

It's pretty and white.
The same white that dressed the tip of your nose.

You'd lay in the snow.

Sometimes waiting.
Sometimes watching.
Sometimes playing.

All for me.

Paw prints here.
Paw prints there.
Of course, paw prints everywhere.

Yours.

I see them.

Fresh snow.

My big boots.
Our walk.
Your speckled coat.
You and me in the falling fresh snow.

Uh-oh!
Let me clean your "boots," Bernie.
Gimme your paw.
Such a good girl!

Free of snow.

Snow that dots your wet black nose.

Come on Bernie, let's go home.

Hi, My Name Is Oliver

***Today, I am thankful for video.***

Hi. My name is Oliver. I am a dog, a Wire Fox Terrier. You can see a picture of me here and read more about my breed here. Here's a preview: "Active, friendly and playful, the breed is highly trainable and excels in events such as agility."

That means I'm cool and athletic.

I'm also tech savvy.

I'm at Chad's tonight. Usually I come over here with my mom, Beth, but she violated conditions of her parole this week and is in the clink for a while. So I'm here with Chad.

Just kidding, Mom!

I like it here at Chad's. I think he is part dog. He barks at me sometimes, and always fills my food and water bowls first thing when we walk in the door. He takes me for walks and lets me ride in his cool car.

Chad is my friend.

He used to have a dog, a dog named Bernie. He doesn't really talk about her too much, but sometimes when he is singing a song when we goof around, he tells me that it's a song he used to sing to Bernie. They're very funny, energetic, silly songs. He made them up all by himself.

He made a song for me, too. Basically, he just sings, "Olliver" a lot. It's good.

It's always good when someone sings to you.

Sometimes when he's not around, I check out his iPhoto program and look at all of his photos of Bernie. He has tons of them, and I like every one of them. Bernie is my friend, even though I never really met her. And even though she is a mean-looking black dog.

I'm a small dog, spritely.

"Active, friendly, and playful."

I'm going to watch hockey with Chad now, so time for me to go. I posted the video above for you. I love it, it's like Bernie is right here right now!

I hope you like it too.

Oliver

P.S. Hi Mom!!!

Swimming in Sacramento

One of my favorite Bernie stories, and I don't think I've yet written about it yet, took place during the one full summer I lived in Sacramento. It's dry and warm there, not much water aside from the delta. I actually lived in Roseville, California, a suburb outside Sac, in a vast apartment complex. I've chronicled the catastrophic first few weeks Bernie and I lived in the complex, nuff said on that.

Anyway, aside from "old" Roseville, the town was newly developed in magnificent California style--row after row of houses that look exactly the same. However, right across the main road of the apartment complex was a big, huge park. I've written about this park. More than anything, it was city land that was simply untouched. Just vast Central Valley flatland, which really looks like a Midwest pasture in the midst of a long, hot summer. Tall grass, brown grass, and lots of dust.

Through this park ran a stream. It was maybe ten feet wide and generally didn't have a whole lot of water in it. However, down the way a bit there was a "fall", and at the bottom of this fall was a nice pool of water--say 10 x 20 and 3 feet deep. This is where Bernie danced, sang, and swam.

At some point, though, that pool started shrinking. It was suddenly all dammed up--big limbs and stuff blocking the water. The area above the damn was still shallow and meek, nothing for a dog to swim in really.

So like a good master, I started moving the dam, so my pooch could swim and cool off. It was a fun, and important, component of our play in the park, so sayeth me and the furry black dog.

Dam cleared, water pooled. Swimming dog. However, each day, the dam was back. It got bigger, more complex. A really intricate web of debris. I'm not sure how much I thought about it, but I couldn't figure it out: Daily, literally, a new dam would be present, but the creek water in no way was capable of carrying that much debris to any given spot.

So I'd take off my shoes--it felt good to me too--and would deconstruct, flooding the dog's pool. Happy dog, happy Chad.

As you hydrology experts know, water in California is a sticky wicket. Most creeks and a lot of other bodies are man-made, part of a complex system to control water and wring out all that's possbile from snow melt and storms, all for man. This creek was no different, and for a time, I wondered if Ranger Rick was stopping by daily and building this dam, lest the people of Los Angeles die of thirst or some such thing.

The dams were built, then deconstructed by me, for a month, maybe two. Daily. Then I read an article in the Sacramento Bee, not penned by Tom Bradford, that discussed many such creeks in the area, their importance, and a problem many of them were incurring: Beavers.

Turns out, Ranger Rick was more interested in deconstructing the dams.

The article explicity said, though, do not get in the water to deconstruct the dams, for beavers are fiercely protective of their turf and, of course, capable of gnawing a nice chuck out of your water-prone parts.

To that, I have two things to say. It is unbelievable how thick of wood these things can eat through and how fast they can do it, along with construct the dam. A crazy dam. Second, Bernie and I both felt really lucky that we each had all of our paws and limbs.

Beavers be damned, I continued to clear the dams from dry land and Bernie continued to swim, day after day after day. Oh to swim in Sacramento again.

Tootsie

Tootsie

As you may recall, I adopted Bernie from the Lake Tahoe Humane Society in 1994. Bernie was the Pet of the Week in the Tahoe Daily Tribune on August 22 that year. Via Twitter about a week ago, the Trib pass along Tootsie, the current Pet of the Week. What a fine looking pooch Tootsie is, eh? Here's her ad.

My instinct was to pack up the car and drive to California, but practicalities got in the way. I still want to go get her, though. Hey, I split for California once, and never say never when it comes to doing it again.

Tahoe Pets of the Week are the best.

As for the moment, though, I'm here in Minnesota, so I simply wish Tootsie the most promising of futures. If you haven't already, you'll find a good home. Maybe a cool young man's heart is just waiting for you to jump inside.

Sleep Well

Twenty-six hours later, you were back with me. Bruised, battered, and scarred but hard. Tough dog. One of my many favorite Bernie Moments was riding home with you that night. You exhausted, us exhausted. You sat, the full weight of your body on mine. Tight, you and I. Always tight.

I can't help but think you must have been an ailing dog by that time, but you never showed it. I sometimes wonder, fear, if I thought you felt better than you really were the last few months, maybe even year. You were always you, though, never much worse for the wear--nothing was ever more than some kind words, some soft pats, and a big bowl of kibble could take care of.

Such a simple but deep relationship, pure.

We slept well that night, yes we did. Sleep well tonight.

Sepia

You always wanted me in your sight. Didn't have to be by your side. But in your sight. We'd run and play. You'd pause. Then I'd run or ride away, you'd bust into full stride. Running, running, running. Catch me. I see you, Dad. Stay right there. I see you. See me now, black dog, I'm right here.

They were all so nice, helpful. They all wanted to find you, they all wished they had seen you. It was warm, they were happy, willing. One hundred, two hundred. Many. Many eyes. I knew you weren't happy. I found a man, a man and a kid. They'd seen you, the night before. In their driveway. You wandered, they approached. You growled. They left you alone.

You're here somewhere, waiting for me. We will find you, I and my new band of friends. You will be home, home with me. You don't have to run to catch me. I'm right here. Always right here.

Crushed

No sleep with no dog, never again maybe, is no good. The light came, cloudy but okay. I ate, I think, have to eat. It was early, but not crazy early. I hit the trail, expecting to find my buddy among the quiet, sleeping, maybe down by the water. I knew she was gone now. I just wanted her to be sleeping, forever would probably be better by now.

The trail we walked hundreds of times was all mine now, solo. My eyes kept at the shore then all around. My voice joined in the hunt at times, my eyes carried the brunt of the burden. Up one way, back the other. I had last seen her above me, I was down taking out the dock for the season. She was above me. She'd be there when we were done, she was always there, her more worried about me vanishing than I of her.

It was quiet, dry leaves underfoot crushing. Me crushed. I had all day, this was the day. I knew something good would come of this. Not enough good, I knew, but good nonetheless.

Quickly, I was proved correct.

Tick Tock

The clock is at my parents'. I stayed there the first night, the night she went missing. You keep thinking she'd appear at the door, peering in as the thousand other times. I kept peeking, just light shining on empty space. I knew she was out there. Somewhere. I almost hoped she had passed away, I'd find her in the morning. Peaceful, though not me, she would've died alone, wondering if I would show up to help her. It's hard to find a black dog at night, in the woods, deaf to all but her own thoughts. I wonder what she thought.

I tried to sleep. I would get up first thing to search, to find her. I knew I would find her. Where I did not know, alive I did not think.

That clock, though.

It's a fake clock. Like a grandfather clock, it doesn't tick. I don't think. It chimes, a song. Ten seconds worth, every quarter hour. Everything else was silent, I wanted to hear my dog if she came home. All I heard was the clock. Every fifteen minutes. Dum, dum dum dum dum dum, dum, dum, dum dum dum dum dum, dum, dum-dum-dum-dum-dum. I tried to turn my mind off, didn't work. I tried to turn the clock off, didn't work. The only things I heard all night were things I didn't want to hear. Morning would come, right? I'd have the energy to find her, right? Maybe she'd be there in the morning, her bark snuffing the chimes.

Dreams

***Cold, wet nose.***

I haven't walked around the lake since she left. That same lake we'd walked a thousand times, where now I called and called for her, looked down on the banks wondering if I'd find her struggling. She wasn't talking to me, she'd talk to me. Must be asleep. Maybe forever. Outside. Alone.

She swam in that lake a lot. There's a canoe there, and when I'd get in it and row, her still on the dock, she'd talk and yell, wanting me to come back. Distraught. She'd dive in to come get me, swimming, swimming, swimming to catch me. I'd come back, never wanted to lose her in the lake.

Distraught, both her and I.  Rural darknerss, her ears deaf to my voice, my light only a spark. Forever at peace, possibly.

Back she will come. Strong, full of will, a little tired. Light will arrive, we'll get through the night.

Cursing the clock.

Sound Check

It's beautiful there, at my parents'. You're quickly in the middle of wilderness. Ignore the houses. There's lots of water, plenty of fantastic wetlands. It's been dry here the past few years. This place looks a lot better when there is lots of water. It's pretty.

There on cloudy days, at dusk, or when dark, my mind flashes back. Walking each road, looking for my friend. My older not entirely healthy friend. All that ends well isn't always well. A wicked car accident--though unhurt, still stained. I block it out, the flash. Eyes closed to those 24 hours, the constant calling out. No voice nor sight in return. It had always been so peaceful. Wilderness brings peace. Now eery silence.

Lost

***Bernie on the banks of the Mississippi, in Minneapolis***

We seemed to have skipped fall here, woke up yesterday to a dusting of snow, 30 degrees at the moment. Spent some time at my parents' yesterday, doing some yard work, had to wear long underwear, seems like it was yesterday, or maybe the day before, that I just put it away for the season. I'll still ride my bike to work some, my end of season in terms of that is when ice initiates its months-long presence. The Cardinals are done, and while postseason baseball on cool fall nights is one of my favorite sporting events of the year, in some manner it is now hockey season. Hockey is good.

On October 24 last year, it was 80+ degrees here in the Twin Cities. That day was also a lot of other things, as recounted in my January 8 entry and recounted often in my mind. The leaves of a difficult memory are sometimes stubborn to fall and blow away.

Busy Times

***Bernie says, "I miss my dad."
Dad says, "I miss my dog."***

I haven't been much of a blogger lately, busy times indeed. Someday, I'll have to pen something about balance, that tricky state of biting off just enough, not more than you can chew or too little so as to be starving. Busy-ness I suppose is a bit like overeating in that at some point you have to find a comfortable limit of appetite.

Speaking of, I made yummy ham and pea soup today. And I spread some grass seed.

Good times tomorrow, though. Headed to a luncheon where my nonprofit, ACES, will be honored by the NFL/ESPN/Dick's Sporting Goods. Schmoozing and a bit of cash await. Then tomorrow, Monday, night, look for me on TV, for I'll be at the Vikings-Packers game. That should be something else, as those games always seem to be. Going to Monday night games is always a geeky thrill, anyway. Rumor has it we may get a tour of the ESPN MNF set and production facilities. We'll see.

Then Tuesday evening I have a short speaking function, then I sleep. And Wednesday night, I sleep.

One
day
at
a
time.

Beth's dog, Oliver, spent the night with me Friday, a little mano y mano time. Very, very exciting. Oliver was as pooped as I, it was almost bedtime when we got here. So we watched a little bit of Forrest Gump while I taped my hockey sticks. Then I played hockey Saturday morning.

So now I sleep, I'll be back later this week. Go Cards!!!

Goodnight Bernie.

I Love Joe Sakic

Ah, well, thankfully I checked the sports page for sports on the tube tonight, noticed that there are two NHL games on tonight. Better yet, it's opening night of the regular season. Best, it's "Joe Sakic Night" in Denver. Joe retired after last year. Believe you me I could go on and on about Joe, but frankly, his statistics speak for themselves. As far as on-ice presence, for those of you in St. Louis, think Brett Hull x 2. Seriously, and there's no bigger Brett Hull fan than I. All I really can say is, if there were more athletes, and people for that matter, who would share their good fortune and remain humble amidst vast success the way #19 did, we'd all be better off. He's a star among stars, though you'd never know it if you met him. Yep, there are still a few good ones out there, folks, but that number decreases daily. Take 'er easy, Joe.

Couple Things

***July 2006***

If dogs are the coolest animal, then flies are the worst.

One time I walked home from the coffee shop near my house, only to realize a bit later on that I'd left my car there.

Big fish eat the little ones.

And everytime this song comes 'round on me IPod, I think Oh, no, I can't possibly listen to this song again, ever again. By the time it's over I think, "What a thooper-fun song!"

Post 100

***Day 246***

What a hand gesture that was, so obvious, easy for you to know what to do. It worked, small cool dots now on my lips, cheeks, in my eyes. Maybe you, yes you, can see me some, some at least I hope. In front is black. Canopy now overhead, darker. Blacker. Such noise from above. You can't see me. I see you. I wish you'd go away--not you but them . . . it. Eyes back to black. My back so hot, the rest cool. Breezy. Warm, sticky, feels much like home. Down I go if I find a hole. But now you light my path, yes you. I feel free, fast, more free. Stay back, over there, not too close, never too close. Not far no more, pretty much made it now. Quiet back here. Peaceful. Slow. Very close. Who is up there? I used to know, but time has passed. Over the top, in my sights. I'm here now, but you are not. When will you? Quiet, dark, alone, now I am home.

Circles

***Chicago Daily News; June 18, 1965: Patricia Ann Morgan, a model, poses for photographers after she was acquitted by a New York judge of the charge she was wearing indecent shorts in Riverside Park. The judge ruled Miss Morgan's shorts were kind of short but not short enough to violate a Park Department ordinance.***

Why the hell are lawnmowers so loud? I guess a lawnmower's response might be, why the hell are you sitting in your backyard with a computer on your lap, geek? Anyway . . .

When I bike to work, which makes my mind and body feel oh so yummy, my path takes me through the University of Minnesota campus. It's my favorite part of the ride, at least during the school year. Lots of traffic and tight riding, perfect for the urban explorer idiot. So the point here is, on my ride home from work today, it was clear that this was little freshman show up and stuff all your crap into your stinky dorm day, welcome to your new home dork day. Upon realizing this, which really wasn't so much the fault of the silly new students in their senior high wear as much as that of their punch-drunk parents' wicked driving, my thoughts turned to circles. Then, because I'm strange, they turned to U of M President Bob Bruininks, whose son I went to Sweden with while we were in grad school though that has nothing to do with anything I am typing here, and I wondered if this first day of fall freshman madness made him feel like he was riding a train at the zoo--you know, it just goes in circles, you pass the same flippin' stops over and over, time after time if you stay onboard. Bruininks has been president for the better part of a decade, and I wondered whether today triggered thoughts of time flying by in cycles of one year, four years, something like that. Me, I don't like circles. I prefer to jump off trains.

Time is a weird thing, so I relate rather well to it. In the relative grand scheme of things I won't, and neither will you, be around much longer. Yet I, maybe it's my spirit, generally feel immortal, which of course in reality makes no sense and entirely contradicts what I admitted in the previous sentence. So, the photo and caption here, 44 years old, certainly offer an illustration of how times have changed, circles replaced by points no one of the past would have expected. People are comparitively naked now days when it comes to shorts, except for basketball players. A short, no pun intended, article in the same Daily News edition reported that people on public aid--which I interpreted to mean welfare--could now be given information about birth control with their aid check, but only if they requested the information. I wonder where that law stands today, and I wonder where it will stand tomorrow, when our time is up. Circle or zig-zag? As well, though you think shorts can't possibly get any smaller than today's, 44 years from any day always lurks right around the corner. So shorts, circle or zig-zag? From this day to the year 2053 means 44 more freshman classes, 44 more years of punch-drunk parents on campus. The zoo train, of course, will still stop at the same spots. Circles.

Chanel

By VIRGINIA BYRNE, Associated Press Writer – Mon Aug 31, 10:54 pm ET

NEW YORK – A wire-haired dachshund that held the record as the world's oldest dog and celebrated its last birthday with a party at a dog hotel and spa has died at age 21 — or 147 in dog years.

The dog, named Chanel, died Friday of natural causes at her owners' home in suburban Port Jefferson Station, on Long Island.

Chanel, as stylish as her legendary namesake, wore tinted goggles for her cataracts in her later years and favored sweaters because she was sensitive to the cold, owners Denice and Karl Shaughnessy said Monday.

The playful dachshund was only 6 weeks old when Denice Shaughnessy, then serving with the U.S. Army, adopted her from a shelter in Newport News, Va.

Along with her owner, Chanel spent nine years on assignment in Germany, where she became adept at stealing sticks of butter from kitchen countertops and hiding them in sofa cushions in the living room,Shaughnessy said. She also liked chocolate, usually considered toxic to dogs, Shaughnessy said.

"She once ate an entire bag of Reese's peanut butter cups, and, you see, she lived to be 21, so go figure," Shaughnessy added.

Karl Shaughnessy nominated Chanel for the title of world's oldest dog after noticing the Guinness World Records book had no record.

Guinness World Records officials presented Chanel with a certificate as the world's oldest dog at a Manhattan birthday bash hosted by a private pet food company in May.

Chanel loved the party, especially the cake, which had a peanut butter flavor and had been made for dogs, Denice Shaughnessy said.

Chanel exercised daily and ate home-cooked chicken with her dog food, but good care wasn't entirely responsible for her long life, said her owners, who attributed God.

"Dogs are God's angels sent here to look out for us," Denice Shaughnessy said.

A dog from New Iberia, La., named Max, is vying for the record of world's oldest dog. Owner Janelle Derouen said Max marked his 26th birthday on Aug. 9. She said Guinness World Records officials were reviewing documents to authenticate his age; a Guinness World Records official in London didn't immediately answer an e-mail from The Associated Press requesting confirmation of that.

When asked the secret to her dog's long life, Derouen said she was shocked he's still with her.

"I have five kids, and all my kids are grown and gone," she said. "Now my grandkids are playing with this dog."

Grief

***Danny & Sto, December 1987***

I had a really nice weekend near Brainerd, Minnesota with Mom and Dad, sister Cara and her husband, Marco, and my awesome nephew, Eli. We ate well, went horseback riding, cruised Gull Lake on a pontoon, and my weekend culminated with an awesome warm-stone massage . . . something like that anyway. Then I came home and played in a super-fun hockey game.

Sadly, Sunday morning we learned that my brother-in-law's father, Jose, passed away. He was 86. I first met Jose two years ago at my sister's wedding. To quote Cara's Facebook page, "He was a fun loving guy with a witty sense of humor and was an expert in telling fascinating stories. He immigrated to the United States from Lima, Peru in 1956 to give his family a better life." Two weeks ago, he was here in Minnesota with his wife, Yolanda, their daughter Carol and her husband, Rick. We spent the day on the St. Croix River (you can view via my Facebook page a 40-second video of Jose on the St. Croix), and I really warmed to Jose--how sharp and funny he was, his warm presence. We spoke a bit in Spanish, which was fun for me. I am genuinelly sad that I won't have the chance to chat with him again and know that his family will miss him dearly.

August 24, today, is a date that never passes me by without remembrance. On August 24, 1990, dear friend Danny Black from good ol' Webster Groves died. That day and the following week I never forget, 19 years ago always seeming like yesterday. I miss Danny's smile, laugh, and our boy-to-boy then man-to-man talks as we intentionally walked many steps behind our friends. I loved those talks. Danny is sorely missed by many.

Finally, my nonprofit, ACES, had its annual golf tournament today. A year ago at, in the midst of the tournament, I took a call from Bernie's veternarian, learning Bernie had two different types of cancer in three different spots. It was a grave diagnosis I knew at the time, and as you know, four months later Bernie was in puppy heaven.

May Jose, Danny, and Bernie rest in peace tonight and ever after.

A Cure for Boredom

***One of the silliest photos I've ever seen, Vikings head coach Brad Childress driving Brett Favre from the airport to practice on Tuesday.***

Pro sports bore me, at least compared to the level of invigoration they use to bring me. Leagues want parity, and they've set the system up to achieve it. In other words, every team sucks. Boring. "Defense wins championships." Boring. Athletes in it just for the money and fame. Boring. Fans in it just to be "seen" at the game. Boring. The Minnesota Wild. Borrrrrrrrrrinnnnnnng, and a classic example of how leagues and owners and all have forgotten what pro sports is: entertainment. The reality is pro sports don't matter except for their entertainment value. Lose that, they border on utter insignificance.

So everyone is dissecting the whole Brett Favre thing. He's a narcissist. He's too old. He just didn't want to endure training camp. He's a traitor. The Vikings are dumb, stupid move.

Huh?

Dude is an entertaining athlete. Now, in the interest of disclosure, I will say this. I like the Vikings. I root for them, but when the game is over--win, lose, or draw--I forget about it. It's three hours of my week, nothing more. I've met Tavaris Jackson a couple times, I like him, he's a nice, articulate man, and soon he will be an ex-Viking. I like Brett Favre. I speak of on the field, I gave up on Sportscenter and its soap operatization of sports and athletes long ago. I don't care about Brett Favre off the field. But man, dude is entertaining on the football field. Scrambles, interceptions, Hail Marys, et al. You don't have to like him, but there's something wrong with you if you don't find him entertaining. Now, in the Vikings case, they have been a boring team since Childress took over, save for Adrian Peterson. Tavaris Jackson is a boring quarterback. Sage Rosenfelds is a boring quarterback. Brett Favre is entertaining, win, lose, or draw. He puts asses in the seats. He is what fans deserve in return for putting down $100 for a seat. It doesn't matter if he's too old, doesn't want to participate in training camp, won't help the Vikings, or you think he's a punk-ass. He'll make us laugh, smile, and/or roll our eyes and throw stuff more in one game than most quarterbacks will in a season. My kind of athlete.

Now all we have to do is get Randy Moss back . . . that would be some serious entertainment, as sports are meant to be.

I Am a Dog

I saw a couple Old English Sheepdogs prancing down the street with their owner yesterday. They had summer cuts, growing out a bit by this time. My former Sheepdog, Poochie, was a very social creature. She was also a really good climber. I used to come home from high school and she'd be in the neighbor's front yard, visiting with the younger children at play. She'd climb the chain linked fence that bordered our yard. She'd climb that sucker like a human, all for the joy of mingling with the common folk.

Speaking of socialization, my skillz constantly amaze me. You see, I went to a barbecue today where I knew no one except Beth, and while my expectation isn't such, I'm always conscious of the possibility that I will make a complete jack ass out of myself--like they just won't get me. Not that I'm that hard to get, in fact I'm rather easy to get, especially in a short "surface" encounter. Try to get to know me further, well, that just might be another story. My jack-ass-potential recognition isn't the result of paranoia or even simple fear. Rather, I think it's spawned by the fact that we all attend this or that gathering and there is one bloke who just comes off as an idiot, a dork, or the adjective of your choice. Tonight, that wasn't me, and fortunately, it rarely is. There wasn't one at the barbecue, unless you count the bees that were prevelant and annoying, but didn't have the cajones to actually sting anyone. Weak.

Business functions always make me laugh, generally in hindsight--where I leave this or that collection of "important" people and think, "Wow, I nailed that. How the hell did that happen?" I went to a lunchoen this past week, topic was inflation. My mother was there soaking in the information, as was I, it presented in circles in the manner only economists can do, and she commented to me following, "You have such wonderful social graces." Indeed, and granted it was my mom, but it's the first time "grace" in any context, save for being preceeded by "lack of," was used in utterance of moi. I'm generally quite pleased if I don't drop an F bomb at an innapropriate time, so grace is a big bonus.

I did figure out at some point in my adult life (I use the term adult to refer to post-undergrad years, even though in my case I actually hit full adulthood closer to the time I finished graduate school, which wasn't that long ago) that most people are alright. Nobody intimidates me, it's more just a matter of if I think you're a tool or not and if I can withstand another moment of conversation with you without drooling as my eyes slowly shut, or in extreme cases, vomiting in dissatisfaction. I have social grace though, hear me roar, and am quite adept at keeping said fluids where they belong.

There aren't a ton of people who make me jump and wag my tail, quite frankly, so I'm certainly not a Sheepdog. On the flipside, I never bite, so I'm not a pit bull. More so, I am like a Chow-Chow, sniffing out the scene and then coyly backing my aloof self out said encounter, to sniff elsewhere, ultimately taking myself to those who do make me jump and wag my tail, to those who bring me joy. I love to leave my yard but am always glad to return.

Oliver's Weenie

***Earth, where about 400 million dogs roam.***

I touched Oliver's weenie today. Oliver is Beth's dog, you know this because you read every entry of my blog. It was an accident. He was standing on the arm of my couch Saturday morning while I read the paper. I reached up and my hand touched his weenie. I've never had a dog with a weenie, so this was a true rarity for me, even more so than for the average Joe who has a dog with a weenie. Let's hope it's a rarity in his case, too.

That, of course, was a miniscule portion of my day, about one second of it, or .01 percent of a 24-hour day. Science says that the human species as we know it, homo sapiens, has been on Earth .000002 percent of Earth's existence. Diamonds, on the other hand, were created before life on Earth existed about 4 billion years ago, so they've been around much, much longer than us homo sapiens. They are so deep in the Earth that only powerful volcanoes can extract them, which compounds their rarity. This rarity, of course, is in part why diamonds are a girl's best friend. Dogs, of course, are a boy's best friend, but that doesn't necessarily mean we like to touch one's weenie!

Shameless Plug

***Thursday, August 13, join me and a lot of other people for the inaugural ACES @ O'Gara's Garage fundraiser. Tickets are $10, all proceeds to ACES, live music, FINNEGANS Beer specials, a great raffle (click here for prizes). Festivities start at six o'clock, raffle begins at eight, we're outta there at ten. Click on the photo to blow it up. Be there!!!***

It's been a good week, back in the flow of things. I was away from work for a month, and there's always a bit of stress wondering what awaits when you return. Alas, all is well at ACES, my colleagues (especially Catherine and Anna)--along with Leadership St. Paul--have done an awesome job getting this event going. It's the first time we've tried this type of event, something fun and loose, and hopefully appealing to all the great help we get each year from our college-age staff and volunteers. Let's do this! Hope to see you there.

Back in the Saddle

***Bernie at the dog park, on the Mississippi shoreline. If I recall correctly, this trip to the dog park was the first time I admitted she was older, as she walked and sniffed much more than ran and swam! She was 10 in this photo. Sept. 2005***

Alright, it is August 9. July 10 was my last day of work before Brazil, and August 10 is my first day back at work. It's not all bad, going back to work, though this week promises to be a busy and interesting one. If you are in the Twin Cities, please please join us Thursday 8/13 @ O'Gara's in St. Paul for a fundraiser from 6-10 for my nonprofit, ACES. Food, music, a kick-ass raffle. We fear no one will show up, so be there!!!

I had a great trip to Brazil, met many cool people from around the world and did many cool things with them. Rio is a great place, the Amazon is amazing. I'll go into more detail in subsequent posts (I'm still getting my groove back as far as writing/blogging/computing goes), but serious thanks go to Becca, Fernanda, Francisco, Andre and all the other Brazilians who were pretty cool to this gringo for three weeks.

I've spent the past several days hanging out with Beth doing fun stuff. Her dog, Oliver, is pretty darned entertaining, I must say. Really smart but kind of flakey, energetic as all get out. I came home tonight, after a full day of boating and socializing, to a quiet house. It still throws me, no dog to wind down with. It's like a hole in my life that I'm waiting on someone to deliver the dirt to fill it. I've been so busy the past few months perhaps I haven't noticed the void that exists. That, and I noticed the past couple years, even when I still had Bernie, that I was becoming more co-dependent. Not on one person, but just less satisfied taking on the world as a party of one. Now I have other pleasant parties to walk alongside but no fuzzy friend to take my mind off the world. Of course, march on I do, back to reality on Monday, an amazing month in the books. I wonder what adventures await in the upcoming month. . . .

Welcome Home, Chad

***I saw a little fox like this one about a half-hour ago about two blocks from my house, on my way home from hockey. Being that I live in the city, this is quite unusual. He had a little dead animal in his mouth. I stopped, looked at him, he dropped the animal and wanted to flee, but just couldn't leave his prize. I wish him well, hoping he makes his way to a nice place for a fox to dwell, away from the hazards that he will face in this environment.***

I was craving American food. A big fat greasy cheeseburger would've been perfect, but being that it was eight in the morning, that wasn't going to happen. Nevertheless, I made my way into Chili's within the Atlanta airport, tantalizingly close to being home from my three weeks abroad. I was greeted by a large lady, about 60. "How you doin' today, baby?" We got along smashingly well, she reminded me of many a mother I met during my childhood "down south" in St. Louis. It was a great first "welcome home" upon landing on U.S. soil!

Two-Minute Blog Post

Oy, gente! I am in Brazil--Quissama, RJ to be exact. This is the town where Becca lives, and we are staying at a cool house for the next few days. The first few were spent in Petropolis, a small German mountain town. It is much, much warmer down here, about 90 today I'd say. The sun literally feels like a big ball of fire, it's amazing. And it's winter here.

No major events or mishaps to report, smooth sailing thus far. Yes, the cab driver from the airpo0rt to the bus station tried to fleece me. He succeeded to a point, but I also scored a victory, too, paying only about half what he wanted.

Alright, gotta go to the beach and barbecue and all that, good times. Tschau!

Sunday Conversation

***This is salmon, a sad (but tasty) piece of salmon from Saturday dinner.***

Bernie loved salmon, if you recall, I fed it to her as part of the Bernie stew I made for her the last six months of her beautiful life. Chad likes salmon too.

So, I am scheduled to be flying the friendly skies from Atlanta to Rio a mere 48 hours from now. It's a big trip, to say the least. I will fly about 17,000 miles on this trip--1,000 Minneapolis to Atlanta, 5,000 Atlanta to Rio, and 2,500 from Rio to Manaus. Double that for the round-trip total of 17,000. Wow.

Flying in and of itself doesn't cause me much angst. Of course, when you're basically just tossing your life aside and going to a faraway land that is virtually unknown, your tummy can get a little sour thinking about that. I'm pretty good by now, a couple weeks ago I had some mainly subconscious stress over the whole thing. One thing I've learned, though, is that things are almost always dynamite once you get there and get into it. Therefore, for the past couple weeks I've just been like, Let's Get It On!!! Come Tuesday, I shall. I go to the Amazon on July 20, for those of you keeping score at home, and will return to the Rio vicinity about a week later. It all shall be a hoot, I tell ya. Here's to good health, a key factor in all this for certain.

I must say, any trepidation I have is much subdued compared to when I had Bernie and was prepping for a trip. It's easy to judge a doggie's state of mind when you're mere feet apart. It's rather impossible when you're half a world away. I went to Sweden a few years ago for two weeks, which was the longest I'd ever left my dear puppy. She was a daddy's girl, for sure, had some separation issues that though mild were a little unsettling when I was away for extended periods. You know that she is obsessing, thinking really of nothing else but you while your gone. Wondering with every sound if dear ol' Dad is home. You just don't know, though, how hard it is or isn't on them. The pack mentality tells them you'll return, but I also think the pack mentality tells them to go find you, that you've met distress. Of course, we won't let them do that, so what's a dog to think?

So I'll leave here, my home in good hands, my body and mind slowly freeing itself temporarily from my life. It will be different this time, though. While I won't be missing Bernie (aside from the way I always miss her now), I will miss someone and a cute little furry canine. And you'll have to tune in tomorrow to find out whom and what the hell I'm talking about. G'night.

Nature

***Chillin' on the bed, so cute. 2004***

I mentioned once, I think, that there were times when I'd look at Bernie and would be kind of mesmerized, that there is a live animal in my house. It lives there. It's cool but also strange. The whole dog-human thing, started by some accounts with humans corraling dogs back in the day to protect their homes, livestock, possessions. Humans came to like the creatures and vice versa. Thus the relationship began.

I think it's important that people, humans, realize we are live organisms, a simple though dominant species in a vast ecosystem. Our health and happiness, I believe, can at least in part be influenced by our connection to nature. We need to spend time outside, in the sun and in the rain. Our windows need to be open, we need to eat fresh foods that come directly from the Earth. I've always felt the happiness and long-term health of my dogs was connected to them spending ample time outside, alone, where they can grasp their connection to nature. They do understand this, I know Bernie did. You could just see it when you observed her outside, the zen mindset, understanding she was part of something bigger than our relationship. She was a part of nature. We are parts of nature.

Moving to Tahoe by myself had a profound impact on me, outside of the obvious social and growth effects moving 1,500 miles away from home by yourself has. You can't help when surrounded by nothing but nature realizing that you are part of something bigger, that no matter how independent you are, you are dependent on much. I spent so, so much time in the mountains with Bernie, us both feeling out our place in the bigger scheme. I watched her, watched her instincts. You could see where she comes from, domesticated over time yet wild at heart. How does a sheep dog know how to herd, without seeing an example or being taught? How does a pet know how to snap the neck of a squirrel to kill it instantly?

In reading about the Amazon, fascinating reading through and through, one of the author's--I'm reading so many books I don't remember which--stated that part of the reason he went to the Amazon was to further embrace his connection with nature in the sense of feeding his soul and body the elements, elements most of us never even grasp are relevant to us. Does it go so far as the hippie philosophy that we are all appendages of one big "creature"? I don't know. We are all part of something bigger. When people do and say really selfish things, and specifically I think of many politicians, I often want to ask, "Do you realize you are going to die? That you really are fairly insignificant, as we all are when it comes right down to it? Why must you impose your special-interest will upon the masses, when the masses do not want what you preach? What's in it for you, you will be gone while your ignorance, short-sightedness, and closed mind propogate over generations." It is why the greater good is important, we are all part of something much greater. Everyone needs to know this, to live their life in deference to this, at least to some degree. Grow a garden, take a hike, lay in the grass and stare at the sky, go on a trip where innumerable creatures can humble you till death with one sharp bite.

So I look forward to my forthcoming massive encounter with nature. I respect it immensely, particularly since my days in the Sierra Nevada, not because I want to be called green or because I want people to think I'm cool, and not because I'm deeper philisophically than anyone else. I adore nature because it is omnipresent, it's important, and once a piece of it is gone, it's gone. Do you know that 70 percent of all the oxygen in the world is generated by the Amazon rain forests? So who the hell are we, creatures of something far bigger, badder, and deffer than the human race ever will be, to say, "It's just a tree. It's just a jungle. It's just a stinky animal . . . burn it down, I WANT RUBBER!" Nature writes a conclusion for each of us, it's there waiting for us all, and while that conclusion often comes to soon or sharp for our liking, it's necessary. It's why I understood and understand why Bernie is gone, others are gone, and others will go. I will embrace the opportunity to see--feel--nature at its finest, in the Amazon, and will adore untold sights and will likely sink at others, pitiful sights brought on by man without cause or concern for the vast picture. In the end, though, it will be an experience to further humble my perception of the big-picture purpose of my and your existence. Simpler, though, is that it's a chance to gaze at the birds, the trees, and animals in their blessed relatively untouched natural habitat. Sounds like a day in the life of a happy, healthy dog.

Days of My Life

There are days

When it is harder than hard

Harder than I'd ever admit

To think that my A-1 love

Bernie

Is never here again

Not in my house

In my yard

In my car

Not by my side

Always in my heart

Ever-able to make me feel better

Make the world a little nicer

For me

And with that

For those who know me

It builds up

Sadness

I won't cry

I talk to her

Pretend she is here

Near

Music to my ears

My own voice

Creating sounds

Sounds for Bernie

I want to hear her sing

There is only one of her

Lots of good ones in the world

Only one of her

The one I want

That slice of pie

A really sweet spot of my sweet life

Is a hole

Hungry

Pretty Puppies

***Couple of good lookin' pooches there, eh? That's Rio (foreground) and Newton. They are my friends' Jason and Kim's companions. A tired dog is a happy dog. Webster Groves, Missouri; recently***

Alright, two weeks from today I will be en route to Rio de Janeiro, how appropriate! I get my last rabies shot on Thursday, just in time for the Fourth of July holiday. Now, while in Brazil, particularly Rio I think, I will see lots and lots of doggies. Crazy, rabid, stray doggies! I'll still try to be kind to them, within reason. I wonder, is it better for a doggie to be stray or waiting for his or her fate in a kennel, whatever that fate may be? I lean toward the former, but the ideal situation would be for people 'round the world to help control the pet population by having their pet spayed or neutered. Really, though, one of the main things I'm looking forward to on my adventure is seeing cool animals, monkeys and stuff. I may or may not go pirahna fishing, though it would be cool to unhook one of those little boogers then eat it, just to say, "I am KING." Of course, I suppose there is a remote chance I will get gnawed alive by a school of pirahnas, but two things to that possibility: One, I have no intention of submerging myself in the Amazon, pirahnas or no. Two, word on the street is that they're not quite as predatory as legend has it. I suppose if you had a deep, bleeding flesh wound you might have a problem if for some reason you decided to go for a dip in the Amazon River while suffering from a deep, bleeding flesh wound.

Amazon River trivia: It is more than one mile wide at its narrowest point.

Bernie trivia: Bernie was about two inches wide at her narrowest point (her cute little nose, which had super short fur that was fun to rub my face on softy).

That's all I got.

I'm Bad

Farrah Fawcett was a little before my time, though as a wee lad I was certainly aware of her presence and how giddy she made the older boys. I still get sad that I can't turn on the TV and watch Johnny Carson, with Ed McMahon rumbling in the background. And now Michael.

The summer of 1983 friend Brian Williams and I would stay up late, really late, at my house on 107 Joy Avenue in Webster Groves, Missouri. We'd sit on the sunporch off my room, open each of the nine windows, light cigars in our best David Letterman imitation, turn on a tape cassette recorder on "Record," play music from a boom box. The song was "Beat It," and thus began Brian and my recording of our radio show on Beat It 109FM. I loved Michael Jackson, Brian didn't, but somehow I convinced him to let us use "Beat It" as our theme song. Yes, I still have a cassette tape or two of our recordings, which primarily consist of talking, laughing, and a lot of Van Halen.

I never really got the Elvis thing, and I fear those under 30 years old just don't get the whole Michael Jackson thing. Dude was mesmerizing, so freakin' talented, such an entertainer. He was a star, far beyond the media- and corporate-made show biz wizzes you see today. No one had to TELL you how talented he was, his moves and his voice presented all the evidence you needed. His Thriller album sold 28 million copies in the United States alone, one out of every ten people bought that album and who knows how many others had a copy recorded from those purchased albums. He sold 750 million albums in his career.

Michael made even white people want to dance.

He reminds me of the summer of 1983, the real MTV, Kerry Overall, blaring "The Way You Make Me Feel" in Oliver Hall at the University of Kansas my freshman year (to the chagrin of most of my floor mates), Eddie Murphy doing a brief impersonation in Raw: "I'll moonwalk all over your ass," the adoring Beatles-esque crowds that swarmed him, Bubbles the Chimp, me dancing like mad to the song Bad at a barn party at KU freshman year downright plastered, and one of the nicest things a friend has ever done for me. When I was in college, Michael embarked on his Bad tour, and he was slated for a show in St. Louis. My friend Jim Stephens, unbeknownst to me waited in a massive line to grab two tickets to the show, fifth row no less, so he and I could go. Jim didn't care about seeing Michael Jackson, but he did care about me getting to see him. Alas, the show was cancelled due to illness. It's still one of the nicest things a friend has ever done for me. I almost got to watch and listen to Michael Jackson from the fifth row!

As it is now, what a show Johnny Carson and Ed McMahon can do tonight, themselves with Farrah and Michael as guests. If she's not already booked for another show on the late-night circuit, perhaps Bernie can make a precious appearance! For though it may seem, the curtain never fully closes.

Goodnight to all, and never stop singing, smiling, dancing, and laughing nor panting.

Tweetin' & Rockin'

***Bernie at the dog park, the Ol' Miss, the Mighty Miss. September, 2005***

If you're not on Twitter, you're missing out. What, exactly, you are missing out on is up to you, depending on whom you follow. You can laugh on Twitter, you can learn about big news stuff you'd never otherwise hear about, you can network, you can pump-up your nonprofit or business, and I'm sure if you put your mind to it, you could even meet the woman or man of your dreams. Plus, you can follow Britney, T.O., and other wackos till your heart is content. You can follow me, chadc324, speaking of wackos.

I'm dog tired, Bernie would be too now. She'd have joined me for some errands, yard work, and of course a walk on this warm evening. She'd be sprawled lookin' all pretty on the living room floor right about now. Speaking of pretty, a wink of the eye to the crowd at Rock the Garden on Saturday, which was super-hot in more ways than one. It was a peaceful, buzzed but not inebriated crowd, and I must say, and here's where the wink comes in, it was one of the finest collection of pretty summer dresses I've ever seen, and this says something coming from a guy who a bought a $12 pair of jeans at Target tonight.

It even smelled good at RTG. Not the women, certainly not the men, but the . . . cigarette smoke. Yes, people were actually smoking cigarettes, my goodness, and damned if the scent of burning tobacco didn't mix mix oh-so well with the good tunes, happy people, cursing Current DJs, and cold Summit beer. I don't miss smokey bars per se, though the scene of the haze near-filtering good indie music, both inevitably pumping through your veins . . . good times. When it was all together again on Saturday, it was a sweet melody.

My dream in life is that before I die this country decides to battle drunk driving with the ferocity of tobacco. What a worthy fight that would be.

There were several differences that Bernie and I noticed upon moving to Minnesota from California. For one, nobody ever flirts here, not like there at least. Another is that stuff is just there for the taking here--like construction equipment, plants at a plant sale. I mean, at night you walk by, and it's just sitting there. In California, everything is locked up, or it quickly becomes someone else's. So at RTG you had to buy beer tickets, then take your ticket to the beer stand, and give your ticket to the beer boy or girl in exchange for an easy-drinking Summit. The beer boy or girl would drop your ticket into a box--a box that was sitting right there, full of hundreds or thousands of submitted tickets. Right there for the taking, in California they would've been immediately tossed in a bonfire, no cheaters allowed. Here, they just rested comfortably in their box, the only attention received being people writing in their blogs post event about the big box of tickets they could've dipped into if they wanted. For better and worse, people don't do that here. We all even left our purses and backpacks in the grass when we walked away for spells, their contents safe and sound upon return.

Big credit is due, due in respect to the prices for food and beverage that were, like, market price and not ridiculous big-event prices. I got a bottle of water and a baguette sandwich from Joe's Garage for $6. A 16-oz cup of relatively premium suds was $5. The pretty and contemporary Walker Art Center was open for our use, to pee primarily. I walked in a men's bathroom barefoot three times. I like to think all this is because the indie crowd is cooler than the mainstream crowd and wouldn't have tolerated capitalist-pig prices that are so common at other well-populated events. Of course, I'm generally at least somewhat delusional.

Aside from the heat, a dog would've had a doggone good time at Rock the Garden. Lots of pretty, friendly people to pet his or her head. I thought about my dog while I was there, how I didn't have to rush home following to let her out. I enjoyed my midnight bike ride home, starving when I returned, fired up the grill for some late-night eats. I always gave Bernie my last bite, still want to every time I eat. Beth brings her buddy Oliver over sometimes, he sniffs around and knows Bernie was here not so long ago. Dogs in my house are cool. Dogs in my heart, better.

Music in my ears is my new BFF, upgraded from longtime good-friend status. If you'd like to meet my newest best friend, check out Amazing Baby, straight outta Brooklyn. Night y'all.