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.

Sleepy St. Paul

***Bernie with a big bone. September, 2007***

Bernie was a good sleeper, and she could and would resist any urge to go to the bathroom until she--and I--was damn well ready to in the morning. Aside from the normal morning puppy angst that causes dogs to become your alarm clock every day for the first, oh, 12 years of their lives, she would sleep soundly until she heard me say, "Wanna go potty?"

Last evening I met up with a friend, Beth, who shall remain nameless for everyone's protection, for a walk on the lovely river road that is equidistant from our respective houses. I ate dinner shortly before and in the process slammed a couple glasses of cool refreshing water, so I was good to go. It was a decent night though one where many a native to these parts would say, "It's soooo hot and humid," which means it was about 73 degrees with 60 percent humidity. I can hear the chuckles from the Gateway to the West everytime my northern chums complain about such conditions. Anyway, the walk was nice, we talked about death--people tend to "pop up" in the river often as the ice thaws each year. I don't remember so many bodies being found in the Mississippi down St. Louis way, and I'm kind of thinking that the more treacherous conditions further south may somehow magically conceal them for eternity, or at least until they hit the Gulf. We talked about other stuff too, like music. Then I said it was time to turn around because I had to pee. I'm no Bernie.

So we did and ultimately landed at a watering hole in the neighborhood. That's when things got really exciting. A waitress who at one point said, "it's so hot tonight" brought Beth some merlot/lime juice/other stuff beverage that tasted like a flat wine cooler, and I a Carlsbad malt liquor. Don't worry, I didn't let the smooth taste fool me. I thought it was fooling me, though, when from my perch on the streetside patio I gazed aimlessly into a Barnes & Noble parking lot and noticed a young woman standing there in her underwear, apparently changing clothes after a bike ride. The comments thereafter caused blood to shoot out of Beth's nose from laughter, which surprised me because we'd only consumed deep fried dill pickle chips, or whatever the heck they're called, and not a mound of blow, for goodness sakes. Conversation continued, interrupted by a couple of chaotic horn-honking incidents, near accidents. Certainly, those sounds stunned the two people who were up in the tree right in front of us, but they managed to hang on. I say "people" and not guys or gals, because one of them was both--or neither. However, Beth and I agreed that he/she was cute, regardless, so it was all good. As the evening wound down for us, said person crashed on his/her bike . . . or maybe it was just that he/she was holding the bike tire. Then we left.

Just another night in sleepy St. Paul.

Insights

***I picked this photo randomly, without even looking at it. It is from the awesome dog park at Minnehaha Falls, on and just across the river from St. Paul, in Minneapolis. Bernie was about 10 in this photo, and interestingly, it was one of the first times I genuinelly recognized she was getting older, just lots more walking than our typical running. She still swam in the Mississippi River that day, though! September, 2005***

Today I'm thankful for sunshine, bicycles, water, IPods, good tunes, good books, good beer, good places, the Midtown Greenway, all the pretty ladies who were out and about today, and my genes. Though I haven't a clue from whom my genes were passed, they allow me to engage in the physical play of a 12 year old on a continuous basis. Come to think of it, I'm thankful for all that stuff every day--today I simply got to enjoy them all together. It's a good weekend to live in the Twin Cities.

I kind of "hung out with Bernie" all weekend, meaning I played at my house a lot instead of going out and about, it was always fun to do that with her here to talk with and stuff. She always use to rise around 11pm or so when we were hanging out, walk up to me, and look at me. It was time for bed, she was saying! They say dogs don't have a sense of time, but I think that's baloney. Maybe they don't have a sense of, like, how long you've been gone from the house, but they certainly have a circadian rhythym. Girlfriend knew when it was time for bed. If I didn't budge when she pointed out the time, she'd go curl up on her bed in a semi-permanent sleeping pose.

I had good intentions going into the weekend, of working on an editing project, but after about an hour of that on Saturday, I cast it aside. It's cool, Dennis doesn't read my blog, so I can confess to having greater priorities (screwing off) than his book. I found a good Amazon tour option for Brazil partner Becca and me to investigate further. I spent hours--hours--doing necessary maintenance on my ITunes (Josh, your Radiohead is ready, to the tune of five CDs. This meant I got to spend a lot of time with said band in my ear last night, always a perfect night.). Further, I finally finished downloading necessary prep music for next week's gathering at the Walker Art Center's Sculpture Garden, cause . . .

Next weekend is another good weekend to live in the Twin Cities, as 89.3 The Current's Rock the Garden fills the day at the Sculpture Garden, and I and 15,000 of my closest friends, as well as bands Calexico, Yeasayer, Solid Gold (local), and everybody's little indie-pop darlin, The Decemberists, will entertain with some good tunes. Hopefully copious sunshine will be part of the equation, too. Those four bands' latest albums add up to 56 songs, 52 of which I listened to riding my bike today and while reading. Really solid stuff, those albums, but I really have to give a nod to Calexico. Their latest album, "Carried to Dust," is outstanding. The Decemberists', well, they are very good at what they do. Solid Gold, a keyboard heavy act, which often scares me off, totally exceeded my expectations. And Yeasayer makes you wanna lay in the grass and look at the sky while listening, very nice.

I thought about, on my ride home, that it is really, really nice to not "have to be home," to just roam if you want to. I've always known this, and that's my default mode of existence, but now it's allowed to play out since my little buddy gets to run by my side now wherever I go! It's all good, I miss her and think of her a healthy amount, but am totally enjoying my more free spirt existence.

I stink and need a quick nap, thus I'm also thankful for showers and my bed. Tchau!

Pride

***Bernie about to enjoy a treat. December 21, 2008***

One of the many things I enjoyed about Bernie was the way she would walk on-leash with her head up high. Her joy just boomed, and there is no more pleasant sight nor greater feeling than the unbridled happiness of a canine. Especially when she's your own. Of course, I credited much of her obvious elation in these situations to the fact that I was by her side, us walking arm in arm, if you will. Bernie was proud to be out and seen with me, she liked to show me off to other people and other pooches. We'll call it parallel pride, as I was always proud to be with her. Paws really can prance, you know.

The past two nights I have had fantastic dreams of her. Up to that point, the many nighttime visions I'd had were of the normal sort, us just going about our life together for 15 years. Two nights ago, I dreamed that I was sleeping in a room that resembled the little sun porch off my childhood bedroom, at 107 Joy Ave. in Webster Groves, Missouri. There were two beds in there, and when I woke up in my dream my longtime friend Jim Stephens was sleeping in one bed, I in the other, and Bernie on her bed--between me and Jim. In the dream I was thrilled, for Bernie was departed then and there as she is here and now. But now she was there. I didn't jump out of bed and hug and kiss her. I simply had that really keen feeling I use to have when I'd wake up in the night in real life, and I'd sneak a peek at her sleeping. I'd always say, "Hi Bernie," then I'd go back to sleep. The last year, maybe two, I'd get up and go pet her for a moment. Years prior to those, she'd often be sleeping in my bed, and I'd pet her before I fell back asleep. The years prior to those, she was the one saying, "Hi, Dad!" via a lick to the face, at whichever hour of the night or morning she chose.

Last night, though, was the best dream yet. I'm not sure where I was, Ireland I suspect, but I was walking in a picturesque setting, on a moist gravel road, with someone but I'm not sure whom, and Bernie just appeared. This time, we were both visibly thrilled. I pet her enthusiastically--her fur was extra soft--and her big spotted tongue dangled uncontrollably out the side of her mouth. The fur on her paws was white--like a black dog with white paws--but I didn't ask her about that. It didn't matter, Bernie was back with me.

Bernie is extra proud of me today. Her dad got a rabies vaccination, just like Bernie used to get! He just sat there and took it, no groans, spasms, or complaints, as cooperative as Bernie was in those moments. I bet she was licking my face to comfort me, as I used to pet her fur when she bravely accepted her vaccinations. Dad also got a typhoid, yellow fever, tetanus, and hepatitis A vaccination. You see, Bernie gets to walk Brazil and the Amazon in 35 days, with me!

Thunder

It rained all day, most welcome. It only rained a half inch all of May. There was no thunder, just a soft quiet shower all day. Bernie wasn't afraid of thunder. Occasionally, if there was a really loud sudden bang, she'd jump up into bed with me. Otherwise, though, she'd have no comment. It's funny, though, Bernie grew up with no thunder--not much in either Lake Tahoe or Sacramento. In fact, it hardly rains in either place, save for December or January in Sacramento, where it can be like living in the middle of the Pacific. You see, it all depends on the jet stream, whether or not the venerable "Pineapple Express" streams . . . kidding, I'm not going there. Anyway, you'd think the introduction to thunder might have freaked her out, but that wasn't the case. Poochie sometimes would crawl under the bed when it thundered, but she didn't pay much mind to it either. Some dogs freak out, like really freak out, and this is most unfortunate.

I do remember one day, here in Minnesota, when I was at work or wherever and Bernie was in her typical place during my absence, the backyard. Bernie has a doghouse, I made it when we moved here, but she never used it. It just sat there. When it snowed, she'd lay in the snow, turning into my little white dog. When it rained, she'd lay in the rain, only moving to the top step, which provided some shelter, once the rain pentetrated her undercoat. That took a while, and if it was warm enough, even then she'd stay laying in the rain. Invariably, though, the doghouse remained vacant.

So that one day I was gone, she was outside, and it stormed furiously. Tons of lightning, windy, pouring rain. It went on for a while. Wherever I was, I couldn't leave, and I was a bit worried about my lil buddy. Finally, I was able to get home, storm still raging. Bernie wasn't in the backyard, I saw when I pulled in the driveway. Like I said, she hadn't much experience with that type of storm, so I feared she'd pulled one of her great escapes. So I went into the yard, calling her name. No Bernie. Finally, I walked over to her doghouse and right when I poked my head into it she poked hers out, her wet nose meeting mine. Bernie!!!! My big, soft, furry dog was a big, wet, black rat looking thing, but she was no worse for the wear. Kisses were exchanged.

Empty Nest

***Bernie and one of her many "monkeys," 2004; St. Paul, Minnesota (the hockey capital of the United States)***

Hey, feel free to follow me on Twitter, chadc324. If you're not on Twitter, get on it.

Today, my roommate, Nichole, became my former roommate. Actually, she's been gone a few days, but the last of her stuff went bye-bye today. She moved in September, 2005, if I'm not mistaken. Once again, time flies.

So I have an empty nest--no Bernie, no Nichole, no Poochie, no numerous others who have shared a roof with me over the years. All gone. It's quiet and creepy. I'm never here. I wake up, I shower, I put my healthful little breakfast in my bag, and I drive or walk to work. Then after work I'm all over the place, sometimes making money sometimes spending it, sometimes teaching sometimes learning, almost all of it always in Minneapolis. Then later I come home. Generally, I go upstairs to this master's quarters. I chill out or slingshot water balloons out my window at my neighbor's house, depending on my mood. Then I sleep, as best I can. I'm not always the best sleeper.

Oh, the other day I was walking up my basement steps, which lead to my back door, which was open, and I was just doing chores and stuff, and I thought as I walked up the steps, Damn I miss that dog. Then I walk outside and there's this dude who lives a couple houses down from me, across the alley, he never says anything--sometimes he'll wave if our paths cross, but we've never spoke--never. Eight years almost. So I walk out the door with that Bernie thought fresh in my head, and I really don't consciously think of that often, and he's walking by on the sidewalk. I didn't acknowledge him, he just blurts out, "I bet you miss that dog, huh?"

Things have changed a lot in the past year. On June 6, 2008, I took Bernie to her first vet appointment in response to her drooling a bit and exhibiting minor behavioral changes. We figured out nothing on that visit, I discovered the masses on my own a couple weeks later. I was definitely sad on or about June 6, 2008. My dog was 14, which is all good, but her mortality was starting to slap me in the face--and her too, I'm sure. She never wanted to be anywhere but here, in my nest. Our nest. In this backyard, on this picture perfect Minnesota evening, listening to the birds, being talked to and pet by the people who walked by--even though the people were more often happy to see the big, fluffy bear-like black dog than vice versa.

So yeah, my crib is empty except for me, but my life is full. Lots of changes thus far in 2009, and we're not even halfway done. I get bored without change, so bring it on. More is just around the corner. . . .