*#%!$#@ computers!

I have the same LOVE/HATE relationship with my computer companions (a.k.a. slaves) that I do with my cars: when they work they are a fine tool...but...when they don't I just lose all patience! Oh! Don't ever let your IS department take it away...it'll come back possessed - poltergeist to the 10th power =(~ To cut them (IS that is) a little slack, they were trying to "upgrade" my Cro-Magnon workhorse with a "newer" version. I've been under this threat for a few months and Nerdwit comes in on Tuesday with a CAD racehorse - "This'll only take a few minutes" says he. "Man, this is one fast bitch. Your gonna love this one!"
"Your sure?"
"Yep, not a problem."
"I've got a ton of stuff to do before I leave on vacation."
"No worries...be just a few minutes. You did back-up your profile?"
"Huh?"
"Nevermind, I'll do it."
"Uh...ok...back in a few...sure we have to do this now?"
"Uh huh"

So I walk away. I go shoot the shit with folks in the plant. Get coffee (worlds worst - industrial waste would be better). Killed more than a few minutes and headed back to the office when out of the office rings: "...shit! Goddammit! Fuckin' POS!" Oh, my day was so over now! I walked away...again.

I go camp out at another station to finish some e-mails and the system has me locked out of the network - fuck!!!

Out of my office I hear a "FUCK THIS!" I rounded the corner and found myself on a collision course with Nerdwit carrying my new, DEAD racehorse. He mumbled something unintelligible - I like his expletives better - at least I understand those.

"Hey, can you hook my old one back up?"
"I'll be back after break."
"Can you at least let me roam?"
"...mmm...nope."
"Why not?"
"Goddamn bug!"

AND THIS WENT ON AND ON AND ON AND ON INFINITO!

FOR FOUR FUCKIN' DAYS!

Back and forth between different OS and the old one became so corrupted it simply and quite utterly crashed!

...and you know what? It's still happening!

I'm going on vacation for a week - 2500 miles away from Nerdwit, dead Cro-Magnon and super dead Racehorse!

Way away, away away...walk toward the light...

There and back again...and again...and again...

We watch our movies and read our books and all of them have some very neat and tidy ending - and life just isn't like that. The real stories are bereft of Hollywood and Madison Avenue influence - shit, don't we wish that things were that simple? Journeys, whether ours or someone else's just aren't that simple.

So, why am I waxing philosophical, eh? Well, it's because of Larry The Homeless Guy. Larry has been a fixture at the neighborhood park for about a month now. He slips in late at night and out again early in the morning. Most of the neighbors didn't even know of LTHG's existence and I only knew of him because of the ungodly early hour that the Bucolic Buffledog and I go for a walk. I've never seen his face - actually I've never seen him awake and I'm making an assumption that he's a he. There was a morning that we walked later than usual and there was no sign of LTHG and yet the next morning there was the familiar lump under the dirty beige blanket, tucked into an alcove on the dark side of the park restroom building.

We had grown so accustom to seeing LTHG that the Bookie-dog didn't even give him a cursory sniff. I began, over time, to wonder about his story and how he came to be in this place. Was it drink or drugs or a failed relationship or failed career? Perhaps he was mentally incapable of existing otherwise - OR - was he perfectly capable but decided to stay the homeless course despite his gainful employment in an effort to save up money. The last supposition is the one that I clung to and I wondered about the possible circumstances that would place me in that situation as well as the circumstance that would hold me there. For better than 30 days I contemplated his situation for at least a few minutes after he came into view. I began to have internal conversations with the sleeping resident of the alcove, of trying to help him get a leg up if that was what he needed. I considered more than once leaving him/her a care package. What I resolved to do was to simply keep quiet so the neighbors wouldn't notice his presence and what few hours of sleep he did get were uninterrupted hours. Is this the extent of my compassion? Silence? Well, maybe. I did worry though.

I began to worry over his vulnerability and his exposure. I began to worry over the hard concrete that he knew as his bed. I began to worry over his family (if there was one) and when was the last time he washed his bedding. I began to cringe when I'd see the early morning beat cop pass frightfully close to LTHG's proximity. I began to feel protective of one of the many we worked so hard to purge from the park during the summer months after finding several needles laying about. Protective of someone who we all so passionately confronted the city council and local precinct about. Protective of someone who we earlier called an urban blight!

Last Saturday morning the Buffledog and I passed by the alcove and only saw a bundle of indistinguishable objects wrapped up in a familiar dirty beige blanket and I wondered. Sunday we passed the same scene and this morning, to my utter horror, was the disassembled bundle strewn about the general vicinity of the alcove. The sacrosanct refuge of Larry The Homeless Guy had been desecrated and defiled. I felt as though I wanted to cry - I did cry as a matter of fact. A shabby throw pillow here. A ragged pair of trousers there. A nondescript paperback minus its cover lay open, its spine broken, against the wing wall that formed the south end of the alcove. Perhaps it was the wrecked book that truly brought me up short - a marker of a life lost or abandoned or that simply moved on. I fear the former and hope for the latter. Bookie-dog just sat silently by as though he was having his own dialog over a person that we passed daily for a month and never so much as saw a wiggle, and yet there was a life under the disheveled covers.

I'm sure the city park crew will dispose of the debris of the person formally known as Larry The Homeless Guy. The Buffledog and I shuffle toward home to re-engage in a different reality altogether. I'm sure that I'll never know the fate of LTHG, but his story, the story that I gave him, will live on to tag yet another. Will I feel different this summer when we find several needles laying in the grass and the gutters? Will I feel different when the Buffledog gets his back up and growls at an insistent panhandler. Will I feel different when I see groups of children cut a very wide berth around an indistinguishable lump on a park bench in the early evening? I don't know the answer to these questions now. What I do know is that I felt the role of a protector, however misguided and uninvited that role was toward someone I'll never know or probably never see again. A life/connection that has no neat and tidy ending - no Hollywood here. His story lives on here and in my mind. I can only hope that my compassion will live on beyond this missive.

Morning ala Buffledog

Life being the sweet and sour ride that it is never ceases to surprise me.

Mornings usually begin with a wet nose and an affectionate doggie kiss at 4 AM - routinely seconds before the wretched alarm goes off (how he knows is beyond my comprehension). The alarm preemptively silenced before it wrecks that transitional moment between dream state and awake state. Occasionally the alarm is forgotten in the rush of the animal happy dance and its driving influence toward the kitchen - the source of all food - manna from the cupboards. The equilibrium is lost the mornings the alarm is dis-remembered and a sprint up the stairs ensues, trying valiantly to intercept the offending appliance before HotSauce stirs and gives it another flying lesson. Days that begin like this often stay like this despite efforts to the contrary. Thursday was such a day!

HotSauce did stir and pulled me back into the bed in some dreamy, amorous (albeit sleepy) effort to resume an interrupted snuggle and the Bookie-dog was having nothing of the sort - there's breakfast and walks to attend to buddy! He lets out a bark that set the dulcimer strings ringing and I extricated myself from the tangle - HS wasn't pleased - Buffledog was - it is his time after all - well, after grudgingly giving way to the cats.

The morning communion service ended and I bundled up in my 20 layers of clothing to futilely retain some semblance of bed warmth and we were off on a 2 mile journey through the sleeping neighborhood and waking business district. Refusing to poo prior to leaving the yard I knew he was in a christening mood and true to form he managed to last as far as the neighborhood watch captian's yard - the reigning block neatnik, don't walk on my grass, security cameras on watch 24-7, don't piss me off retired resident curmudgeon. True to the morning it was also a messy, voluminous event which I'm quite certain was scrutinized later followed by a white glove inspection of the lawn. Off leash, empty and happy in the frosty air he dances down the street...until...we turn the corner and he went as wary as I've seen him - ever!

We've done the raccoons, the possums, the deer that came from god-knows where, the homeless in the park, the drunks in the doorways, the dog wary paper peeps and the rude beat cop and BD had been little more than cautiously indifferent. We altered our route and he continued to stop and look about at full attention for the remainder of the walk. It was most disconcerting and the source of the malevolence was never revealed. I was in no mood to leave the house before daybreak and therefore late into the commute and potentially late for a morning meeting that I called - ugh!

I'm convinced that the number of commuting malcontents is proportional to the urgency to arrive on time. So, once again I was reacquainted with Finger Bob, Cut-off Sue, Speed Racer and Sleepy (a.k.a. Slow) Bea. I finally said, "Fuck it!" and called to cancel the meeting - not good but better than a Saturn spike in blood pressure - and bailed on the freeway for the relative calm of a surface arterial.

Calmer, I walked into a major meltdown of a production lead person and the ensuing chaos. What? Did the mystery malevolence follow me on the 30+ mile commute. I usually try and let this kind of stupid energy dissipate, but it wasn't havin' it. The day fell to shit and the whole train jumped the track by day's end when the said person of meltdown (a friend) became subject of a demotion. It might have been the best move, but I question the hastiness of the decision. The next 30 minutes were spent in consolation mode - wearing and taxing at best, but completely necessary. I'm glad, for once, that it wasn't me having to make the call and I was glad to be close to going home. I did cloister myself in my office/cube and continued to work on the Blog site, figuring the mental escape of the "vertical learning curve" would prepare me for yet another engagement with "The Evil Commuters!" Well, all I managed was a frustrating exercise in learning some HTML code assuring myself a berth on the frantic/manic/panic express. I emerged from the building to discover that my lights had been on all day - ARRRGGGGG!!!!!

I did find myself re-tracing the route of our pre-dawn walk in search of some tangible evidence of the mystery badness with no success - not that I really expected any. The Buffledog was ecstatic to see me come up the walk (of course he does that even if you disappear from sight for just a few minutes) and the day seemed much better. HotSauce and SaucyFree were at the pool and BD and I went to the park to read the "Doggie-news" - no sign of the "dawn concern". Dog's in his heaven and all is right with the world - well, our little slice of it!

I'm not turning on the news!!! =)~

Waiting

bellman banter

"May I be of service, sir?"
"No, I'm waiting."
"On what, sir?"
"On who."
"Who, sir?"
"I'm not sure."
"I'm sorry, sir?"
"I'm not."

Seamus

It’s been two years today. I’ve been waiting.

I frankly have had little heart to be here. Perhaps it’s that I’ve been waiting.

I sit silently on the porch in the early morning hours; my hands warm around the coffee mug and watch our menagerie venture out into the wee first light. I often talk to the Buffledog in these lone moments – these were our times in the pre-dawn and we only missed our walks when one or the other of us was down with injury or sickness. These walks were magical, mysterious, sometimes guarded, sometimes filled with discovery and always full of greetings for our fellow early risers. I sometimes hear my neighbor walk his old Lab, but cannot see them on the road. I sit silently on the porch and wait.

The chores here are endless and often solitary. More than once I’ve turned, hoping to catch a glimpse of my friend and companion. I feel his presence. I wish I could feel his fur. Still I wait.

On what, sir?

On who.

April Fool’s Day. The phone rings and a familiar name pops up on the screen. I smile and answer, stepping outside to the building front and sit on the steps. We catch up as old friends do after a long absence. Then I listen for 10 minutes.

“Talk it over” she says, “and call me later this evening.” I already knew the answer.

His AKC name is Giorgio.

We haven’t named him yet – soon.

He’s 11 months old.

He’s gorgeous.

He's a goofball ... purrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrfect!

He’s Taylor’s nephew.

I’m driving to Idaho on April 21^st to pick him up.

I’m waiting, but I’m smiling.

Here’s his pic from 2 weeks ago.

Damp Dog Paws

I learned something new today:

• "Damp Dog" is a wine industry term - I can only imagine what that's referring to - I suppose that it fits here as well.

Some things I re-learned:

• Cats don't like having drops put into their eyes.

"Yacka...yacka...yaaaaack" was the morning alarm! Ugh! Orphan Annie was harking up a hairball three inches from my left ear! I strongly suspect a motive here following the beginning of a 10 day course of eyedrops for conjunctivitis. Nasty business cat medication. I guess that at the tender age of 15 she deserves to bitch a bit.

• Cats hate their carriers - even the high priced soft versions with zippers and screens.

I'm always amazed at how cats expand inversely proportional to the distance from the cat carrier. There is just no greater peril than trying to stuff a basketball with claws into a 9 x 16 opening of a flexible carrier. I'm also amazed at just how far they CAN extend their claws. Another millimeter and she'd be classified as a WMD! Hey George! Over here!

• Cats can shout!

...volume proportional to the distance from the house. Hearing protection advised!

• Damp dog paws fresh from the yard after a 4 AM poo run and applied to bare, naked skin will surely wake you faster than any coffee!

Tenuous Setup

...and that's all it is!

Well, actually there is more - much more. I was having a bit of creative difficulty deciding to join this fun, but I've learned something in just setting it up. What I've finally grokked is to just Nike the thing and it will find its own voice. Content? Who knows? It'll probably be mostly for my own amusement, but perhaps others will find it entertaining as well.

Random musing come often during my morning sojourn with Bucolic Buffledog - a 1 to 2 mile daily commitment I made to him when he came to be. So...I suppose this will be the e-sieve - the sorting of the spew that would usually evaporate by the first traffic light.

...and so begins the misadventures along with Hot Sauce, Bucolic Buffledog (a.k.a. Bookie and 42 other nicknames that he responds to) , the 3 Saucys, Smiley Jack and a host of others...