Tuesday, January 27, 2009
So, on todays date, 58 years ago, my dear ol' Dad (hereafter referred to as 'Diddy') was born on top of a mountain in northwestern North Carolina. Diddy was the second to last of 5 kids. From what I understand he was kind of a rambunctious little kid, who spent most of his time running around the woods pretending he was Dan'l Boone, or Dan'l Boone's indian friend Ton'ta (also the name of my imaginary friend growing up...don't ask...) or an american nazi killin' Davey Crockett type supersoldier hybrid (they don't come any tougher than that!). Diddy was able to parlay his youthful fantasies of being a great woodsman and hero into actually *becoming* just that, one of the most amazing hunters and guides I have ever known. To this day Diddy and I can be engaged in something completely non-wilderness related and he will kind of go glassy eyed for a moment, look outside and then point out an obscure movement (that no human being should be able to see, period) that turns out to be a turkey, a deer, or a sasquatch (I'm still holding out for this one to happen). With all things, my Dad has been this way, amazing attention to detail and an amazing joy to share his world with those he loves.
I guess I say all this, to eventually arrive at this point...
Diddy, we haven't always seen eye to eye on things, but I want you to realize that you are and always will be a bigger hero to me than Dan'l Boone, Davey Crockett or even Barack Obama.
Happy Birthday Dad. I love you.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Talk to me Goose!!!
Darn you Tom Cruise!!! Darn you and your inability to handle another F-14 Tomcats Jetwash to Hades!!!
*rends clothes gnashes teeth*
As a kid I wanted to have the 'Goose' flat top, but after seeing Tom Cruise kill him with his subpar Fighter Pilot skills, I went through kind of a rebellious stage....
I blame this on Tom Cruise. (and Mountain Dew)
Some deal with grief by shooting down Russian Mig jets and saving your aircraft carrier. Others grow horrible kid mullets and shave lines in your hair.
I suppose we all deal with grief in our own way.
So, here I am, doing what I always swore not too...bloggin' it up on the interweb, with much panache (not really) and style (seriously not really). Might as well jump right in.
So last night I dreamed about Pugs.
You know, the little dogs with the crammed faces that kinda look like short smellier Winston Churchill, with that weird wolfman disease that kid from mexico has.
The Mexican werewolf kids name is Danny Gomez. He suffers from a disease called 'Hypertrichosis'. To the best of my knowledge Winston Churchill never had Hypertrichosis, though I have a feeling if he had, WW2 would never have begun in the first place. Hitler had a thing for the occult, and I am fairly certain that the prospect of having Wolfman Winston Churchill as an enemy would have haunted his dreams.
I for one, would love to have Wolfman Winston Churchill as a friend. In between howling at the moon, snacking on the wayward nazi and smoking cigars he could spout off classic Churchill lines such as:
'I may be a wolfman, Miss, but in the morning I shall be regular Churchill again and you will still be ugly.'*
'Eating words has never given me indigestion. Although the occasional Nazi has...'*
Oh...what might have been.
God Bless you Wolfman Churchill. God Bless.
So anyway, I dreamed of pugs. I have two of them. Meatball and Mathilda. They really are the best dogs in the world.
I know, I know, everyone says that about their dogs...well unless their dogs are assholes, kinda like the ill mannered dog that lives in the apartment below us. He's definately an asshole, but his owner would probably still sing his virtues even as he is tearing into the trash or just flipping out like the homeless guy downtown with tourettes.
But my dogs really are the best. Meatball (pictured above...no not wolfman Churchill, at the top) is a slightly overweight 5 year old who wants nothing more than to entertain and love on you. My fiance likes to remind me how satisfied he always looks. And you know what? He does.
Mathilda is 4, she's small and loveable, though a little more skittish than her brother. She always has this worried look of consternation on her little pug face. Though that didn't keep her from tearing into a Pitbull that growled at Meatball once. Inside her is the heart of a lion. (It's really just a pug heart. *shrug*)
I really enjoy dreaming about them. Usually, it's nothing more than the three of us just doing Dog/Master kinda stuff (hiking, throwing a ball, goin' for a ride) but every night after I do so, I feel hopeful and refreshed. It's like their little pug spirits are even guarding me in my sleep.
Which is good because they suck at guarding anything else. I actually caught Mathilda hiding the other day in the bedroom. I just saw her little pug butt (with requisite curled tail) sticking out from under the bed. She laid there for 2 hours, though questionable stealth tactics aside, it seems she survived whatever ordeal was plaguing her. She showed right back up just as soon as she heard the refrigerator open. Guess you find courage wherever you can.
So may you all have a weekend of pug dreams and refrigerator induced courage. (and maybe even a visit from ol' Wolfman Winston himself.)
*Quotes may have been wolfmanized forms of actual historical quotes....*