So this is where the years wind up? This is where it ends?

The man crouched on the stool atop the stage touches the strings with delicate if resilient fingers, but the tattered Marshall on which his boot rests beside him doesn't care. The Marshall likes it loud, just as the Gibson connected to the amp does, and just as the old rocker who cradles the classic guitar to his breast does. And just like the other two, the aged amp still works fine, which it proves by ejecting the single chord through the “business end” of it’s speaker like a well-tuned cannon’s blast. The lonely chord reverberates through the practically empty room, an amplified clarion call of Axeman, Gibson and Marshall, but the few paired-up people in the bar are inattentive, all but one. In the harsh glow of the footlights his fingerprints and sweat streaks besmudge the guitar’s fire-burst design, soiling it, the same as the man’s blue jeans are soiled, and the boots beneath them. His hair is long and unwashed, and his beard, and his shirt tails hang too long as well, (the tails left untucked so as to hide the unwelcomed paunch above his biker belt). The man appears very comfortable in his place upon the stage, comfortable being spotlighted in the skuzziness surrounding him, glowing in the raunchy smells and dim lights made dimmer still through his dark glasses, and through his hazy, three-quarters of the way there drunk.

He steals a moment to read the room. He could take that single chord he’d opened with in a myriad of directions. His catalog is extensive, overflowing with both self-written and cover songs, but he waits before continuing, counting heads. He’d drawn seven people. Seven. Not so long ago he’d drawn 17 thousand. Or maybe it was “so long ago,” considering how the world had changed in that seemingly short amount of time? In any event, this must be where it all really ends, he thinks, all of the rehearsing, and travelling, and playing. He is down to an audience of seven.

Hidden behind the glasses his eyes pick out the only one in the tiny audience who is paying attention. He begins to play nothing in particular to that one, just old finger exercises he’d invented long ago when learning to play, tricks designed to impress, but “nothings” which also allowed him the freedom to take flight in a million different directions, just as the single chord had. It is an old game to him, showing out, a game he plays very well.

She is young, the one paying attention; dark eyed and olive skinned. Big, frizzy hair and sandaled feet stick out either end of a long, shapeless, hippy-looking dress. He can imagine her with actual flowers in her hair, can remember other girls just like her, in other times. She is the sort he used to easily have. He wonders if he still can. Looking at her, he decides on an old song, but a goodie; a song that the girl might even have heard before, written by his favorite songster, way back when. Even if the songs are dated, you can never go wrong playing Kris. Once the song is decided the man in the spotlights begins searching for a jumping off spot from his riffs and rips. Finding one, his transition is seamless into a finger-picked intro in the key of E.

He has chosen the song for her because she has reminded him of it, she has the “look” of it, so he is disappointed when she throws back her drink and stands, but she doesn’t leave, as he half expects her to. On the contrary, she makes her way over to the one step stage, climbs aboard, and without asking for permission pulls the microphone from it’s chrome stand. Intrigued and up for anything, the man slides into the opening chord, nodding her along with him into the song.

She must be Capricorn, he thinks. Her voice is deep, sultry, much smoother than Janice’s, reminding him for some reason of silent snowflakes touching down in a wooded, gray, and wintry world. She keeps it simple, which he appreciates, singing the song as it is meant to be sung, though her lyrics are not quite right;

Busted flat in Baton Rouge, waitin’ for the trains

I’s feeling nearly faded as my jeans

Bobby thumbed a diesel down, just before it rains

It rode us all the way to New Orleans

She is good, so he tones and tunes down, allowing her room to work.

Freedom’s just another word for nothin’ left to lose

And nothin’, don’t mean nothin’ hon’ if it ain‘t free

He joins in where she needs a push, his harmony mixing nicely and naturally with her melody, even though his voice is unamplified. His fingers fill in the breaks, running free at the song’s high point while she lays low, a soft and mournful hum in contrast to the bedlam which Janice’s crescendoes had made famous at this point in the song;

La la la, la da la da, la dee la dee la dee la…

His smile remains inside. An experienced poker player, he knows when to bluff. Hers is on the outside, where he can see it, glowing brightly as the song nears it’s end. They have found something, this old man and this girl; a connection that only music or lovemaking can allow two strangers to share. He wonders if one might lead to the other?

When the final notes tinkle from the amp, in that briefest of moments before the spatter of unexpected applause, while respectful silence still reigns supreme, the two of them share a look, both seeing something fascinating in the other, and wondering “what could have been?” The startled few at their seats, they who have only now realized that they had just unwittingly witnessed one of those special, unforgettable moments in life that are oh-so difficultly found, rise and begin to clap. As she hands him back his microphone he notices her wetted cheek, and longs to swipe it away with a hopeful thumb.

“Thank you, Dad. I‘ve always wanted to sing that with you.”

With that she walks away, leaving him suddenly older, sober, and even more alone.

“Dad?”

Can this be where the year's wind up? Is this where it all ends?

Not on your fuckin’ life, it’s not. The guitar man lovingly lays his smudged instrument down atop the well-travelled amp and leaps a little too exuberantly from the one step stage, so that he is forced to limp hastily through the maze of tables in his pursuit...

(For my friends, TheEnigmas... "words, words, words of shame.")

Enshrined for all posterity

mine benediction for reverence,

whereby conflict resolution

ameliorated courtesy peaceable solutions.

An adulation, concatenation, encapsulation,

gratification, introspection, et cetera

encompassing poignant episodes of mein kampf.

Flagrante delict adulterous sordid behavior

automatically linkedin with Lothario;

an unscrupulous seducer of women,

based upon a character

in The Impertinent Curious Man,

a story within a story

in Miguel de Cervantes'

1605 novel, Don Quixote.

Hard to fathom where yours truly

got (seedy – CD) drive and moxie,

after willingly assenting

to pledge sacred marital agreement

courtesy justice of the peace

and Magisterial District Judge:

Henry Schireson

925 Montgomery Avenue,

Suite 100, Narberth, Pennsylvania

19072-1913.

He subsequently and immediately

pronounced myself and the missus

as newlywed groom and bride

freshly minted husband and wife

July twenty fifth nineteen ninety six

until death do us part.

A couple years later,

we acquired our first computer

then snazzy top of the line

state of the art COMPAQ presario

running on Windows 98 operating system,

a belated wedding anniversary present,

whereat wide-eyed, I quickly disc hoovered

plethora pornographic websites

expending energy and time crafting

which hashtagged electronic ejaculations recognized

now as crude sexually explicit

classified personal advertisements

forsaking welfare of marriage and fatherhood

to mine innocent beautiful two little girls.

I blatantly, egregiously, indiscriminately...

whiled away hours shucking off

essentially grievously ignoring

paternal and husbandly duties

instead prioritizing re: cultivating,

cavorting, frolicking, inviting...

romantic (née dangerous) liaisons.

These days majority of time spent online

constitutes crafting anecdotes of mein kampf,

albeit reflecting categorically imponderable poetry

and/or stream of consciousness prose

veritable anonymous readers

probably roll their eyes

at mine trademark double entendre,

yet bard arse (with shaky spear) knows

how inapropos I consider ogling attractive girls

for instance while grocery shopping

with the missus at Trader Joe's,

nevertheless job of this punster

his wordplay accidentally doth impose

so please pardon moi harmless

momentary lapse of rhymed reason

as mine handy dandy

blue veined ribbed slimy fleshy hose

does double duty in tandem with magic wand,

lifelike snaky entity that actually grows

particularly necessary when

burst of fiery secretion flows

intense spray powerful enough

to pulverize knees and elbows

subsequently witnessing yours truly to doze,

an ideal juncture to figuratively close

silently wailing analogy to Moby Dick

regarding how yesterdays

prurient laced introductions

to rhyme in retrospect embarrassingly blows.

Herewith to enliven anecdote ever further,

I inject humorous tidbit

just gimme moment to unload and reach

into psychological metaphorical knapsack

particularly blue slimy hose, my keepsake

to forcibly remove dingleberries

birthed courtesy emergency pit stop

without means and ways to clean derriere,

a feeble and futile attempt.

Haint no fallacy

yours truly subsequently secured

more powerful giant accouterment,

while clinging for dear life

perched atop ledger

or edge er domain of clawfoot bathtub,

(ah how convenient and timely

smallish size Jacuzzi getup to appear)

and lemme figuratively

continue (closing) pathetic riffraff

(apropos of nothing) riffling around

mostly strewn with random tchotchkes

and odd bubba's zayda's knickknack

such as ahh... look here hocked wares,

acquired ready to receive paddywhack

giving dog(gerel) bonafied chops.

Without warning be alert

and on outlook for non sequitur

verses asinine blather to blurt

plus quite juvenile grown man here

averse to prick thought processes of her/him

who might peruse frivolous inane gibberish

cuz precious effort ye exert

to comprehend written contents

alluding to metaphorical little squirt.

I chose to memorialize, alas and alack

atypical/unusual fond memory -

argh, a sudden nostalgia attack

many... countless years gone back

livingsocial at 324 Level Road,

elapsed good times, I can never buyback

Gambone builders demolished complex edifice

currently repurposed mansion manse courtesy

vinyl city as Stella's Way

boyhood address above,

frequently seen dramatically transformed

into aforementioned place name, which property

originally christened Glen Elm,

(within national registries)

yours truly cannot easily callback.

Noggin houses storied detailed information

though I experience exercise in futility

searching Internet, said webbed wide world

absent information when Leipers lived

circa early nineteen hundreds, though

if mine perchance eyes espied absent estate...

slack jawed stare would repeatedly

sow sadness weighing me heart

heavy as coalsack

accompanying sorrow with

attendant flood of tears,

would make an immediate comeback

impossible mission to stopper

feeble, futile and lame counterattack,

where sentimental reverie would

carry me far away to Old Virginny,

for no particular rhyme nor reason

e'en attempting to write

recollections might trigger

tsunami immanent grievous childhood memories

recollecting watching silent home movies,

while chomping on crackerjack

when I had real teeth,

boot the Missus axed me to enliven herself

regaling humorous instances, thus I cutback

to... hardy potty times, the major drawback

x amount of time elapsed

summoning special occasions

(surgeon general's warning

such mental revisitations)

fraught with onset, where perilous flashback

will moost likely

violently grip cerebral cortex

analogous to puny chap (me)

knocked unconscious courtesy

searingly robust fullback,

nevertheless impossible mission

to restrain waterworks I intend to hijack,

and hoop fully succeed tamping tears

strong suggestion as encouraged by hunchback

from Notre Dame Dublin

known within these neck of woods

as storied Paul Bunyan

also alias Philanderer,

(especially among superficially

prim and proper, but

actually debauched women folk),

whose services regarding payback

best abide, adhere, and afford

to pay forward credo fore playbook.

Said burly lumberjack with severe scoliosis,

nonetheless quite self evident

his outsize implement,

(ye need not axe further questions)

extinguishing problematic residue

iterated further within mine playful ramble.

What left is there for me to do?

And now, the end is near, all the years I have worked, all the plans I have made, doesn’t mean anything any longer.

So, I face the final curtain before all goes dark around me. And in the last moments my friends, I’ll say it clear, that you full well understand, so that before you, you will know I’ll state my case of which I’m certain.

Yet, for all that I have done, there is but one thing I have lacked, one thing I have longed for, and it has been within my grasp, only to slip away like a feather blown away in the breeze.

I’ve lived a life that’s full, yet my heart and soul remains empty. I have traveled the world ten times over, traveled each and every highway, yet she alludes me like a filmy ghost staring back at me through a mirror, but one thing you or anyone else cannot say is wrong; I did it my way.

We both know I’m not perfect, but then, who is? I have regrets, but then, too few to mention. After all, now doesn’t seem to be the time to really look back and make any amends.

Throughout my life, I did what I had to do. In the beginning it was just to keep from drowning. but as time traveled, I realized I saw it through without exemption.

It was then, when I was finally within reach of all my plans and goals, where I planned each charted course, being smart enough, not to waiver or fold for fear of failure, but rather take the time to take each careful step along the byway, and more, much more than this, no one will ever be able to say, I didn’t do it my way.

Now, in these final hours or perhaps minutes ... yes, there were times, I’m sure you knew what was going on inside me, but you never questioned my motives. Especially when I bit off more than I could chew. You would just stand off to the side, nodding your head when I gave you something to do and you went on about the business at hand.

But through it all when there was doubt, I never relented, did I? I never backed off or down. I ate it up and spit it out. I faced it all in my life and still managed to come out on top because I stood tall in the face of what I was up against.

I have pretty much run the gauntlet in life. After all, I’ve loved, I’ve laughed and cried, but when she went away, I vowed I had had enough. I’ve had my fill, my share of losing, and swore I would never let love invade my being ever again. Once was more than enough for me.

Yet, even after what, almost fifty years? If she were to walk back into my arms, I wouldn’t say a word. And yes, I would take her back that quickly for I never stopped loving her.

Still, as tears subside, in a small sense, I find it all so amusing because, just imagine it if you will. With all I have accomplished in life; to think, I did all that, without hesitation. Oh no, oh no, not me because I vowed a long time ago, I would do things my way.

Now, I am here in my last moments of life, and I ponder life’s big prank on me, for what is a man, what has he got to show for all he has done, knowing when the light goes dark one last time, you become nothing more than a memory.

Let’s face it, if not himself, then he has naught and perhaps that is the last deciding factor before life is snubbed out.

To say the things he truly feels, whether believed or not, but know these words are not from one who kneels. I have been knocked around and knocked down until it came my turn. When it did, suddenly the world changed for me. For the records shows, I took the blows and yet, I did it my way.

Your last official act is to follow the directions in the envelope and make absolutely certain everything written is followed to the letter. You must find her for me. Tell her I am sorry. And that all I have remaining, is hers.

It is my way of saying ... each heart beat I have, beats for no one but her.

Now go. I need to close my eyes and sleep, perhaps for the last time.

Little does the general pubic know, there's a little more leniency to paperwork than one might think. I'm talking about music industry papers, the ones that say who owns what, what money goes to whom, and when it ends. It can mean a variety of things; cash flow, tours, marriages, ground rules for heroin use on the bus, all of that. Like all productive citizens of American society, these musicians tend to keep their records with whomever owns them. It's a simple and straight forward system, but you always have a paranoid few to complicate things.

In truth, the record labels are like banks, there's a lot of people out there that would rather stuff their mattresses or walls with bills, for musicians its ownership papers, even more so their masters. This isn't so much of a problem today as we have reliable computers, which I will get to later. Unlike those redneck hoodlums stuffing crumpled money stacks into their drywall, the paranoid rich musician has a more classy approach, a spacious closet or two for a strongbox or locked filing cabinet. If he or she has some extra capital to spend, they may add a fireproof wall or two, a CIA esque keypad for the final touch.

For outsiders this may seem a reasonable approach. In many ways it is, but in many others it isn't. Context is important in these matters, so is that fateful September the 5th 2002, the bloody Sunday for the aging hair metal act. I'm not talking about a warehouse fire that destroyed hundreds of master recordings, this is a different tale of woe, but similar in many ways.

I'll never forget those words. I was watching house hunters when these tough guy bastards decided it was better to give me a false sense of security. The doorbell rang and I answered the door.

"Hey ya there Bush!"

I was down on the floor in an instant, an instant upper cut to the face, no challenge for a fight, nothing. I could've gotten through a few of them if I thought twice about it. My next door neighbor never lost her cat in the evenings, there was little to no chance it was her. I was paying for my judgement lapse with a broken nose pressed to the tile, one guy holding my frail hair, another my neck, both pulling me outside and smashing my face down on the front step.

No one said anything to me until I was chained up to a light post by my pool. By the time I opened my eyes again, several guys had made their way into my house. I could hear those gremlins clunking their boots up the stairs to the master bedroom, the master master bedroom. It would only be a matter of time that they reached the second bedroom. I didn't see the scene unfold, but I can imagine it well enough in my head, several guys that look like they're straight out of Afghanistan busting in there, looking around, and seeing this random kid cowering in his crib.

"Aw crap!"

Stevie V came out second. They spared him a beating. He yelled and complained about the whole thing anyways. He was thrown to the ground and chained behind me on the pole. They at least had the decency to not give his kid the restraints. This didn't make it better for Stevie though. The guys watched over him in the living room until the whole thing was over. I thought my friend was going to have a heart attack.

They could've been punting him across the kitchen like a small dog for all he knew, but that was unlikely. In reality, his anxious fatherly instincts were creating a scene from a grimdark comedy. Three year old Greg was eating a half emptied bowl of cheetos on the island. He watched the last half of a house renovation in New Jersey. The backdoors of the new place were rebuilt using Romanian hardwood. "A feature to extinguish the auburn tones of the fairy garden". I heard all of it fizzle out from the open windows.

The man who'd given the misleading greeting came up to me. His name was Larry del Davis. What he really is is a dollar store Barry Manilow, and that's saying something. To call him that might even be a disrespect to Barry Manilow now when I think about it. Larry was to the soft rock scene as James Corden is to Hollywood. He was everywhere, despite no one wanting him. Larry sucked up to every business head in music. I could argue he was one himself at this point. Rumor has it he's known for starting law suits with local musicians in Florida. The Crime? Having a chord too similar to something else bringing in more money. A forgettable snitch: that's all you need to know about him.

I used to wipe my ass on a banner with his name on it at my concerts. The guy just seemed too boring and docile to do anything about it, but I was dead wrong. They carted out every filing cabinet I had to the poolside. I knew they had no reason to wreak most of it, but they'd do it anyways. What got them riled up had little to do with me. I'd just done a favor for a friend and forgot about it. He was the front man for a popular hair band called Lionheart. They were ahead of their time in late nineties, the firsts to sign a contract they they'd retire from touring by year 2000. It was a popular, but futile feat to be repeated by acts such as the legendary Motley Crue.

Futile is a dismal term to describe a legal contract, but it's the one that fits. A musician signing a paper that they'll never tour again is like a meth head signing a paper to renounce his addiction. In the long run, it doesn't mean much of anything. A band as big as the Crue doesn't fade from the limelight in a graceful manner, they crawl along well past their sell by date. To call it a crawl is an understatement. Coming out of retirement is a curse wrought upon anyone who fails to die young, something Larry cast on all of us.

The infamous Lionheart contract had its original stored at their label. A secretary plucked it out five months later and gave it a go through the shredder. While this was a conundrum, Lionheart was thinking ahead. They wanted to make a statement with this thing. Both the drummer and front man had suffered decades of severe alcoholism on the road and wanted a real official end to it all. A copy was sent out to every guitarist, producer, drummer, aunt, second cousin, dog, and label exec that helped them through rehab. There were a dozen of them in total, one at my place.

As could be predicted, Lionheart's message didn't go over well with many fans and higher ups. A classic eighties act didn't simply disappear from the face of the earth, neither did their demand. I’ve always believed the whole set up was about intimidation. It didn't matter if a lost copy still existed somewhere.

I don't remember the paper in question being burned, but I'm sure its ashes joined the others as they blew into my pool. Everyone had invited themselves to the midday cookout. Piles of documents melted into the outdoor fire pit. It soon became more of a raging blaze. There was enough smoke to set off the alarm in the house and burn a hole through the screen surrounding my porch. I better remember Larry's excited lips flapping about. The guys he brought did all the work, but he had his fun. He'd found a little league bat in the front closet and went to town with it.

"You hear that Bush? We're all screwed! Every last one of us!"

The small stick of wood came pounding down on a broken filing cabinet. It put a good dent in its side. It would've been more impressive if he opened the thing, but the job was done already. Each lock was drilled through and torn from its frame. I'd never seen him smile as much as he did until he said those words. Those feeble arms shaking as he swung. The bat kept swinging hard against the metal, it twanged long and shrill. By the fourth blow it snapped along the middle grain. It's new twin rattled onto the pool deck. Larry held the other half. He stabbed it in the air a few times before chucking it into the pool.

After the first shedder was fired, it was all over. At least six other raids occurred that day. Three were easy break ins as most celebrities have several houses they don't live in. The other half didn't go down without a fight. At 12:31 pm in Houston Texas, the lead singer of Lionheart was having a verbal dispute with his wife. It had something to do with him using the wrong laundry detergent from what I was told. What's important is that they ignored the knocks on the door for a while. When the couple realized these people weren't going to leave, it all escalated. The wife, who'd just snorted five lines of coke, scaled three floors, dumping industrial bleach on the front entrance. Further confusion arose when the men wouldn't move. Soon the scene became a game of what headless chicken could run in the right direction. The drugged out couple jumped right on them the moment they got through the door. A guy got bit five times in the leg before he got to the papers. In the end, the deed was done, despite burning eyes and crazy dead weight being thrown and hog tied in the living room. The front man had no clue what they'd taken until a week later, assuming the event to be a swatting.

Two hours later, another posse entered the residence of Lionhearts drummer. The door was wide open. He wasn't the type to think much of those things. It's important to consider that he lived in Hawaii. The theives had gotten to his papers by the time he'd sat up in bed. Years of hearing damage gave him the illusion the curious noises were coming from outside. The vision of a large tree monitor came to mind. He locked all the doors from a remote on his nightstand to keep the bastard out. Six men were locked inside the house with no working keys. They called the island bonfire off and burnt the second to last contract with a lighter. The drummer was dead meat when they discovered him upstairs. They woke him up from his continued nap and made him let them go.

The last victim was a friend of mine. He was the only one who knew what was going down before it happened. When the dreaded knock came to the door, he was in the back of my studio. With two hands he ripped out an old macintosh computer and made a beeline for the back door. He made it to the ravine before the others started after him. The plan was to crawl into the woods and hide it in a tree. This scheme ended when his foot snagged on a rock. His entire body and computer went in a painful tumble down the ridge. By the time anyone caught up with him, he'd bounced over several tree stumps before landing in the stream bed. What was left of the macintosh lay strewn about several feet away. The battle was over, and some label exec in New York was having a good day.

By 2006, the boys were back on the road again. The tragedy of all this is that they'd still be doing it without the raids. I think people just want to kick someone else into the dirt. The charade lasted at my place for five hours before anyone left. My hands were numb by the time they uncuffed me. By the early evening, Travel Channel had played through a full season of Ghost Adventures. I begged the kid to change it to something else, but I have no skill in the area of telepathy. My backyard devolved into a charred warzone in the matter of an afternoon.

I have little memory of the exchange that caused all of this. It was a mere unremembered favor for a few musicians I'd toured with a decade ago. I don't even know their real names, most of their fans don't either. Larry sat beside me as the others let us go. He lit a cigarette and gave another to me, which I took. My fingers couldn't feel the thing as he passed a lighter under it.

"Jeeze, you really took that like a champ didn't you?" he chirped.

"If you don't get off my property, I'm gonna break your nose into splinters."

"No need for hard feelings. I'm doing what I'm paid to do, just like you. I can't believe I got to do this, standing right in front of you, wow, todays been such a rush."

Larry got up and observed the light pole I'd been tied to seconds earlier.

"Is that stained glass?" he asked.

I nodded.

"I've been trying to find something like that. They're beautiful aren't they? I saw one selling for a thousand at an auction last Thursday, it was in the design of Starry Night and supposedly hung in an office at the empire state building at one point."

I blew a few drags before pressing the but onto the pavement.

"I'm going in for a beer," I muttered.

"Holy shit, is that Stevie V? You cut your hair. I've been standing here forever and didn't even recognize you."

"Where's my son?!" gasped Stevie.

With that I left and never spoke to the man again. Sometimes I still think about him when the pool is illuminated at night. I changed the lamp shade long ago, but its color against the while tiles remains similar. I wonder what an innocent menace like him is doing nowadays. After that thought, I remember he once implied to have AIDs in order to collect sympathy donations from other rich rock bands I thin conclude he's not worth my headspace. I shut off the lights for the night and move on.

These years just get more tiring. People like to say it got bad after the eighties, but it was always like that. Everyone goes down the shitter eventually, no matter how many times they say they like you. To make things worse, I can't help but have a beer with these fiends. No matter how many times they trash my house, I'm their breed. It's my passion to play games with them until I lose, not like there's anything much better to do these days.

We can't all have good opinions; otherwise, how would we know them at all.

A Quadruped once said,"...", nothing at all!

But they sure were sweet when they lay their head on your knee after licking the tears off your ruby red face.

At that moment, in that place, they were there for just you, and they knew it, and they love you no matter what you do!

It's these silent moments when the only warmth in your world is that mutts soft furry curls slid over your hand.

It's the unblinking stare and the total demand of your attention to heard you away from the wonton feelings that got you so low.

It's that you won't freeze when it's 20 below zero on a three dog night in your tiny house you built; but failed to prioritize insulation, but dammit!

You felt it sure looked cute in the shade of green you painted it. The one that the last of your building funds got alloted to. The one you got when you should have gotten new pink panther sheathing foam to line your tiny walls with.

It's those little things like puppy breath and them breathing little barks and ruffs as they are chasing their dreams. It's their little pup-paws up in the air, without a care ,or a thought of gravity. Chasing cars in their subconscious.

I couldn't bare the tragedy

of some of this lifes flaws

if it weren't for that little brindle brown puppy with huge f-ing paws;

my Mr. Buster Brown.

And later actually his litter brother

My dog Jax

Who is "Jaxon pollock Brown" and

Now I have little Paw Paw too.

They're My boys, my friend, my dogs to the end; they are family and I'll be damned if they didn't save my life through the toughest times yet.

So follow me when I say

forgive me please

Dont forget I mean not to be rude.

I'm not normally so braisen to say;

With so much attitude;

That your opinion (no one asked for)

is more than welcome to

join the food i had for lunch

down the drain and flushed.

It's what I do

with all the shit I process

Though what to do with you, Deficating from where your mouth is,

To really screw the pooch.

"Ain't that a bitch; I got this."

I say; handing you tissue.

The Mother, directed by Niki Caro, fell short of meeting action expectations and felt empty of dramatic emotional connections leaving the film in nowhere land. It’s redeeming quality, giving it 3 stars instead of 2, is the compelling acting, though Jennifer Lopez carried the majority of the weight. It will quickly be forgotten in the minds of viewers, and it makes me appreciate streaming services, as I didn’t have to make a separate purchase and own the movie for years to come.

#moviereview #filmreview #review

{Originally reviewed for Letterboxd @SheExclaimed}

Luckily injectable anything is something I've built a physiological tolerance to.

The dose they gave they acted as though would normally put out a horse, so they leave me to the coma they think I'm in with what reminds me of a nicotine pouch attached to my left boob.

The world's different when you're supposed to be knocked out and get to view things from a 3rd person perspective.

They- whoever "they" are , leave the car.

I hear a door shut from afar and peak open the eye they left smashed against the driver side passenger door.

Nobody's in sight.

My legs are itching, toes tingling .. Feels like a fire is being stoked underneath me.

Fuck this charade its time to bounce!

They really had confidence in whatever they gave me , they left the child saftey locks off.

I can feel my heart beating in slow motion which is weird since I don't think I've ever ran this fast in my life.

The road's pebbles bury themselves in my bare feet but this barley phases me.

My toes get caught underneath my stride from some pothole my tunnel vision left out ; the fall came at perfect timing as the road was turning sending me into a shrub filled ditch.

An exact replica of the car I just ditched turns the corner going the way I came.

My in laws face pressed against the same window mine was , except I don’t think they're going to be getting up when they're left in the heat with the windows up.

My bloody knee has already scabbed up, my energy is gaining , and my gut is telling me to keep running in the opposite direction.

My gut also told me to not " speak my mind " and to " forever hold my peace ".

Guess I'm gonna have to bail that stupid mother fucker out of this mess so I can get a couple things off my chest.

It's interesting to me that you don't like dogs. I myself have the disposition of a dog... A dog-cat to be more precise. Let me tell you about the best and only dog that I have ever had, my girl Roxy <3

Let's start again....

I don't particularly like dogs. That is negative experience speaking. Growing up, we had three: a Husky mix named Husky, and a pure-bred German Shepard with dwarf legs named Stefania. Stefa for short; and a Shepard Retriever Border Collie mix, named Mela, Italian for Apple, named so for no other reason than alliteration (in our family we were all M).

Husky was a biter with a sense of humor, no malice apparent in his nature. It's just that whenever he met a passing stranger, from behind, he could not resist "the temptation" of nipping them in the butt. An Alpha-Beta thing? (Father was Alpha of the pack.) If Hushu, as was his nickname, scented food, he went stupid and would bite right through a hand. He did this twice; once during a rare visit to Grandma, and once to my sister. Both bites drawing considerable blood, piercing right though top and underside of the hand that feeds.

Stefa, was a runner during her "time of the month." She was never spayed and never pregnant, and never leashed. She was a patroller of the house but would lose all sense of duty from time to time and had to be retrieved from somewhere in the neighborhood with a dazed look in her eye of procreaterial confusion. In short, she also, went stupid.

Mela was mostly Border Collie in DNA, and separation anxiety plagued her like a long-lost ancestral hound. She could not be left alone, or she would claw and jaw at everything in sight, especially doors and floors, to try to get out of the room or house or yard. I flatter myself to think it was to find us, but most likely she just wanted out. Left for more than ten minutes, she went stupid.

But my Roxy, was a gem. She was very intelligent. Too smart for me I would say. I got her in a time in my life when everyone frowned at my decision to "tie myself down." I was isolated in the woods in the family log cabin and bear were coming right up to the doors so that I felt very insecure at every point of exit, not being able to see around the bend of what was in fact a very expansive solid wood dwelling. Wildlife had kept its distance because of the scent of dog in the past. Years had passed, and raccoons, bears, skunk, and even ground hogs got bolder and made themselves known as co-tenants of the property.

So, I did what needed to be done. No, I did not get a gun. I went to the pound and adopted a dog.

I was looking for a pit bull boxer mix that I was going to name Igor. And I found one.

My heart sank when I heard the bark. The most ear jarring yelp, one that I knew would agitate the cats who I had adopted two years prior from a shelter as feral adults, who were otherwise Bomb Proof. But this yelping nobody could possibly stand. In the compartment next to this idealized silver pit mix, was what I said I didn't want: a female German Shepard mixed with what I was told was Ridgeback, but later came to believe was actually Whippet, because she never ever had that doggie odor, even in the rain. And what a bark. Stellar. Adoption was near certain. My niece Molly would confirm for me if this was the "right dog," because I had conspired to myself that this dog would be partly hers since she is so keen on dogs.

When this dog was led out to me, alone, she showed respect and a docile-ness that was aristocratic. To revise any misconstrued imaginings, she looked like a fox. Red fur, with a little burn around the ears and muzzle, and tip of the tail which puffed accordingly. She was lithe and tall, with a narrow skull and frame of body, and exquisitely soulful amber eyes that betrayed a sadness, and a longing, the origins of which I understood in a short while. 

I should note that her name was Roxie on the certificate. If anyone knows me, you know that I have picked up many a rock in my lifetime and turned it over and over, peering at its inner essence, to draw out with paint and brush one of myriad of faces contained within... it was like a Sign to me. This was The Dog.

When I returned a second time, sure that I would indeed take her home, I brought Molly. It was agreed wholeheartedly. I asked Molly if we should maybe change the spelling of the name, as I knew she had been keen to rename, and this would be a good compromise. I did not dare change the name itself, because it was Perfect, and also because my lady was already 6 years old. It seemed unconscionable to change the sound, but the spelling was irrelevant to her though pertinent to us. Of course, Molly wanted a y; so she became Roxy. And when Roxy saw Molly, she came alive with a spark of joy that I seldom ever saw in all the years of her life. I soon understood why.

The pound knew of her full backstory. She had been owned by an elderly Missus who had passed away and left the dog to her son and his young family. The family had a little girl. Right about Molly's age. The family was at the time of abdication struggling with a newborn and having financial difficulties. Roxy was not lost. She was surrendered to the pound. Severed from her family, holding out hope... of a change of heart, or change of circumstance... She had been there only six days. The county required eight to check for distemper and other potential health or aggression issues.

I took Roxy home two days later and found to my astonishment that she was fully trained. Truly a gift. Sit, stay, heel, beg, paw, even roll over. She always asked to go out, abhorred soiling anything and was a veritable Princess. No, a Queen. Aloof as can be to me. Like a cat-dog someone might be prompted to quip. Yet whenever she sighted a little old Lady or a little girl age 6, she was beside herself with dog gone enthusiasm and that spark was back. How I loved to see her like that!!

Here is the heartbreak of the tale. Roxy enjoyed road trips and walks and tolerated me as new Master. Yet when I would say "Time to go home, Roxy," she would look about us so forlorn and lost that I stopped using that phrase. This it was clear was not home.

When I moved to Michigan, something in her broke altogether. True she was getting older, but 12 is hardly old. Life expectancy should have been 14 or even 16 years had her heart been in it. Soon after the move she lost her hearing. She began to get spells of vertigo so bad that made her look rabid, rapidly circling her own tail, heart racing unable to calm or sit down. It was like she had subsequently lost her mind and went mad. She was put on medication and that unparting sadness perpetuated her being. She began to lose her eyesight and control of her bladder. I made the wretched decision to have her put down.

I have every respect for her and for the comfort she brought to me as the smartest, most disciplined, attentive dog I have ever seen. I also know that she never loved me.