I play solitaire. What technology has wrought for me is a way to play solitaire undreamed by my forebears, who have played solitaire for generations. On tables throughout my family there’s always a hand of solitaire laid out, unless they’re playing cards with each other - or eating.
You should see my mother deal herself a hand. She is a woman at prayer, a master of the art. The shuffle, the deal, chasing fate, moving on. When the doorbell rings, she is living in the present – like she just stepped out of the pool. And she’s glad to see you. After all, she’s been playing solitaire.
The shuffle and the deal I can manage, but the computer has seriously eroded that skill, so I’m left chasing fate without hands. But it’s still a thrill, dwelling in the place where losing is more exciting than winning, watching the elegance of luck played out to the one card which you don’t get, winning and losing at the same time.
If there’s a hot gene in my family, it’s the one that gambles - the will and skill to risk everything because you believe in fate. Big mistake. There’s another gene that sets the limit and luckily, I have that too. So do most of the rest of us. But once in awhile it comes up short, which never turns out too well. That’s why it’s good to play cards with yourself. You learn over and over again that your fate may well be in your hands, but it’s in the hand you’re dealt. Naturally, it’s all in how you play it.
You make your choices in ignorance. Over and over again you choose between winning and losing and at the end you seem to have had nothing to do with it at all. It’s just fate either smiling down on you or sending you to perdition, and either way, it’s fun. Until the doorbell rings, of course.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Recovery
It’s true, I have a broken heart. But it’s the only heart I have, so I’ve got to live with it. My son’s birthday came and went. I try to close my eyes to it, like I close my eyes to all anniversaries. But like the rest, I remember when it’s too late. I remember that I forgot, since forgetting is something I never do.
Remembering my son’s birthday always puts me in mind of my sister’s, which comes on Labor Day, which used to be a joke. But it hasn’t been a joke for years. Labor Day we don’t mention.
Before my stepson disappeared into the wilds of Scranton, having run through three different colleges without a single credit, four months in rehab, six in a halfway house, and 6 in what was called ‘sober living’, and who is now on the loose in a town with the highest population of people in recovery in the nation, which also has the highest concentration of addicts, I used to go on vacation in August, which lies between remembering my son’s birthday and staring at my sister’s. It was good to go to Greece and swim in the water, eat lousy food and walk around some island, a place where you will never belong, that gets along just fine without you, that won’t care when you’re gone but is hospitable enough, as long as you leave a trail of money. It’s life in a nutshell.
I didn't go to Greece because my wife refuses to leave NY, as my stepson might call. We haven’t heard from him in months, and the chance that he might call is nil, but my wife wants to be in a state of readiness. The last time my stepson set foot at home, my wife had an intervention team waiting, which included his favorite teacher from high school, my surviving son - also in recovery, and a professional interventionist who flew in from LA for an all expense paid weekend in NY courtesy of yours truly. It didn’t work, of course. My stepson handled the whole group like he was selling placebo. He even got enough money for a Manhattan haircut before he bolted without a trace - or a haircut.
My wife is half crazy and half sane, both in the extreme. I love her in both states, but I’m likewise divided, since the one costs and the other pays. I think she was also relieved not to be in Naples, where she usually spends July, since the situation there is a disaster. The family business is bankrupt, her brother has been confined to a mental hospital, and her parents are in need of constant care. Her father’s denial has become malignant, and could be counted as a nuisance were it not for his other son, who continues to look to his father for all the answers.
The father doesn’t have any answers. He’s 86. At this point, all he has are questions, and no matter how hard he tries, he can’t remember the answers, even when the answer is where to find the men’s room. Another answer he can’t remember, or at least refuses to, is that there’s no more money. The little plastic card doesn’t work anymore. He keeps sticking it in, like one atm doesn’t know what the other one is thinking.
So I didn’t do anything much this summer but work, which didn’t feel too bad. Besides, we need the money. Recovery I can’t afford otherwise.
Remembering my son’s birthday always puts me in mind of my sister’s, which comes on Labor Day, which used to be a joke. But it hasn’t been a joke for years. Labor Day we don’t mention.
Before my stepson disappeared into the wilds of Scranton, having run through three different colleges without a single credit, four months in rehab, six in a halfway house, and 6 in what was called ‘sober living’, and who is now on the loose in a town with the highest population of people in recovery in the nation, which also has the highest concentration of addicts, I used to go on vacation in August, which lies between remembering my son’s birthday and staring at my sister’s. It was good to go to Greece and swim in the water, eat lousy food and walk around some island, a place where you will never belong, that gets along just fine without you, that won’t care when you’re gone but is hospitable enough, as long as you leave a trail of money. It’s life in a nutshell.
I didn't go to Greece because my wife refuses to leave NY, as my stepson might call. We haven’t heard from him in months, and the chance that he might call is nil, but my wife wants to be in a state of readiness. The last time my stepson set foot at home, my wife had an intervention team waiting, which included his favorite teacher from high school, my surviving son - also in recovery, and a professional interventionist who flew in from LA for an all expense paid weekend in NY courtesy of yours truly. It didn’t work, of course. My stepson handled the whole group like he was selling placebo. He even got enough money for a Manhattan haircut before he bolted without a trace - or a haircut.
My wife is half crazy and half sane, both in the extreme. I love her in both states, but I’m likewise divided, since the one costs and the other pays. I think she was also relieved not to be in Naples, where she usually spends July, since the situation there is a disaster. The family business is bankrupt, her brother has been confined to a mental hospital, and her parents are in need of constant care. Her father’s denial has become malignant, and could be counted as a nuisance were it not for his other son, who continues to look to his father for all the answers.
The father doesn’t have any answers. He’s 86. At this point, all he has are questions, and no matter how hard he tries, he can’t remember the answers, even when the answer is where to find the men’s room. Another answer he can’t remember, or at least refuses to, is that there’s no more money. The little plastic card doesn’t work anymore. He keeps sticking it in, like one atm doesn’t know what the other one is thinking.
So I didn’t do anything much this summer but work, which didn’t feel too bad. Besides, we need the money. Recovery I can’t afford otherwise.
Monday, October 17, 2011
The Last Supper
The first and only time I saw The Last Supper was about 40 years ago. I was wandering around Milan like a dumb fuck on a Sunday afternoon in August with nothing to do and nowhere to go. The city was completely empty - every restaurant shuttered, every bar closed. I walked all the way from the cemetery to Porta Magenta without seeing a soul and stood across the street from Santa Maria delle Grazie, which looked a little grim, like a jewel box left in the barn. There were pieces of scaffolding here and there, but it didn’t look like anything was going to get fixed any time soon. It was just another neighborhood church without much in the way of coffers.
I crossed the street to the entrance, where the door was standing open and an old man wearing a wife beater was sitting in a folding chair in the vestibule. I stood there as he gave me a long look. The church was closed, of course, but this guy and me were like the last two people on earth. I was happier to see him than I was to see inside. He looked at me like he was trying to remember something. Then he said: go ahead, take a look.
I went inside and walked right up to it. There were tarps hanging on either side, a small rolling scaffold nearby. The painting wasn’t covered. It was the back wall, that’s all, and it was a wreck. There was some construction detritus, like the place was undergoing a paint job. In fact, it looked like The Last Supper was getting ready to be painted white, right after it was scraped and spackled.
Like most art up close, the artist’s hand was apparent, the magic on display. In the case of The Last Supper, you could see that it was done by many hands, one following another, taking off a flake and painting it over because, from a technical point of view, Leonardo did a truly shitty job in the first place.
It was vanity, which is no surprise. It had to be the perfect painting. Leonardo was more confident as a scientist than as an artist, which was his one big mistake, the first and fatal, set to destroy this most perfect of paintings before it was begun. He re-made the surface into one he could paint over, which is exactly what happened for centuries.
A true fresco permits no mistakes. The plaster becomes part of the stone on which it sits, and can last thousands of years. The artist has to get it right the first time, and he must prove himself master by the minute. It occurred to me that Leonardo never expected it to last very long, and I can’t help but think that he knew it - two immutable facts. Every mason knows them, every housepainter: water seeps, stone weeps.
No, I didn’t touch it. It was The Last Supper and I was respectful. But I did put my nose right up to it. I smelled the bread on the table and the left hand of Christ. I wanted to see if I could still smell egg tempura, but it smelled like dust, which is what you’d expect.
I crossed the street to the entrance, where the door was standing open and an old man wearing a wife beater was sitting in a folding chair in the vestibule. I stood there as he gave me a long look. The church was closed, of course, but this guy and me were like the last two people on earth. I was happier to see him than I was to see inside. He looked at me like he was trying to remember something. Then he said: go ahead, take a look.
I went inside and walked right up to it. There were tarps hanging on either side, a small rolling scaffold nearby. The painting wasn’t covered. It was the back wall, that’s all, and it was a wreck. There was some construction detritus, like the place was undergoing a paint job. In fact, it looked like The Last Supper was getting ready to be painted white, right after it was scraped and spackled.
Like most art up close, the artist’s hand was apparent, the magic on display. In the case of The Last Supper, you could see that it was done by many hands, one following another, taking off a flake and painting it over because, from a technical point of view, Leonardo did a truly shitty job in the first place.
It was vanity, which is no surprise. It had to be the perfect painting. Leonardo was more confident as a scientist than as an artist, which was his one big mistake, the first and fatal, set to destroy this most perfect of paintings before it was begun. He re-made the surface into one he could paint over, which is exactly what happened for centuries.
A true fresco permits no mistakes. The plaster becomes part of the stone on which it sits, and can last thousands of years. The artist has to get it right the first time, and he must prove himself master by the minute. It occurred to me that Leonardo never expected it to last very long, and I can’t help but think that he knew it - two immutable facts. Every mason knows them, every housepainter: water seeps, stone weeps.
No, I didn’t touch it. It was The Last Supper and I was respectful. But I did put my nose right up to it. I smelled the bread on the table and the left hand of Christ. I wanted to see if I could still smell egg tempura, but it smelled like dust, which is what you’d expect.
Friday, July 1, 2011
The Sixth Sense
My mother argues with dead people. The last time I saw her she gave her brother-in-law an earful, which wasn’t very effective since he’s been dead for seven years.
As I’ve said, my mother has a temper. It’s like a flash flood or a twister. Both are generally aberrations during excellent weather, like the price to pay for enjoying a good climate. And you know how people love my mother - like Sooners love the prairie.
For my mother, there’s an argument for everyone, as if anger is her gift to the world. But like an idiot savant, it is not something within her control. It simply takes over, like a visit from the Holy Ghost. Or, think epilepsy - only you do the opposite when it comes to biting your tongue. And like an epileptic, she can never remember a thing. She’ll announce that so and so is mad at her, but she has no idea why. What did you say to them? I ask. Nothing, she answers. I didn’t say a thing.
My mother thinks of the afterlife as an endless Christmas Eve with everybody over at her mother’s house. Her father is in the basement, which isn’t hell so much as the place where he goes to talk business. In heaven, God is down there too, chewing the fat with Pop. My mother is at the table playing cards, arguing with her sisters. Her brothers are still in Purgatory but expected any minute, and every cousin is around the corner, even if they live in California, or heaven’s equivalent. They’ll all be over for homemade ravioli tomorrow, if tomorrow ever comes.
I visited her at her new apartment in New Jersey, where she moved this year. It’s called Cardinal Village, which is a step up from The Bishopric. It’s possible to live a full life there and never go outside, like a space station with the astronauts suspended in walkers. My mother entered that place like she was selling oxygen and expected to make a killing.
In Cardinal Village, you can tell the same joke to fifty people, one at a time, and then start all over again, no laugh diminished. Within three months, my mother was on the Board. Considering her general outlook, Cardinal Village is like heaven’s vestibule. They call her the Pope, and like the Pope, who sees all people as Catholics, my mother doesn’t see old people as old, or dead people as dead. Everyone looks immortal to her. No one is spared her humor, none her rage.
As I’ve said, my mother has a temper. It’s like a flash flood or a twister. Both are generally aberrations during excellent weather, like the price to pay for enjoying a good climate. And you know how people love my mother - like Sooners love the prairie.
For my mother, there’s an argument for everyone, as if anger is her gift to the world. But like an idiot savant, it is not something within her control. It simply takes over, like a visit from the Holy Ghost. Or, think epilepsy - only you do the opposite when it comes to biting your tongue. And like an epileptic, she can never remember a thing. She’ll announce that so and so is mad at her, but she has no idea why. What did you say to them? I ask. Nothing, she answers. I didn’t say a thing.
My mother thinks of the afterlife as an endless Christmas Eve with everybody over at her mother’s house. Her father is in the basement, which isn’t hell so much as the place where he goes to talk business. In heaven, God is down there too, chewing the fat with Pop. My mother is at the table playing cards, arguing with her sisters. Her brothers are still in Purgatory but expected any minute, and every cousin is around the corner, even if they live in California, or heaven’s equivalent. They’ll all be over for homemade ravioli tomorrow, if tomorrow ever comes.
I visited her at her new apartment in New Jersey, where she moved this year. It’s called Cardinal Village, which is a step up from The Bishopric. It’s possible to live a full life there and never go outside, like a space station with the astronauts suspended in walkers. My mother entered that place like she was selling oxygen and expected to make a killing.
In Cardinal Village, you can tell the same joke to fifty people, one at a time, and then start all over again, no laugh diminished. Within three months, my mother was on the Board. Considering her general outlook, Cardinal Village is like heaven’s vestibule. They call her the Pope, and like the Pope, who sees all people as Catholics, my mother doesn’t see old people as old, or dead people as dead. Everyone looks immortal to her. No one is spared her humor, none her rage.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
A Higher Power
I’ve been called a genius so many times that it feels like an insult. I’d like to meet the genius that wants to be one. These days, you’ve got plenty. I happen to be a genius in the ham and cheese department, but then you’ve got the arts, science, and math. There are salesmen of note, bullshit artists in general, and more than a few losers. I had a waiter the other day that was a genius. He wore it like a bad smell.
In 1963 the nuns gave us a test. They told us in advance that the score didn’t matter. In fact, we wouldn’t be finding out the score, since it was more of an experiment than a test. So we all sat there, tongues hanging out, our #2 pencils filling out dots, entering numbers, and figuring out puzzles. It was more fun than I’d ever had at school. I felt bad about the third problem from the end, since I knew the answer was wrong, but by then I wasn’t paying attention.
After a couple of days, they said that a few of us would have to take the test again. The nun read a list that included the dumbest, most frightening kids in school, whose scores were so low that they were getting another chance. I was also on the list. I didn’t tell my mother. My heart raced until they re-tested us, which happened a few days later. I was more scared to be in a room with those guys than I was to take the test. I figured my only way out was to correct the antepenultimate question, which I did.
After that, things got really bad. The others settled on me as their bitch before the test was over. I finished first, but the nun wouldn’t let me leave, so I spent a half hour listening to some scary dudes whisper to me that I was a dead man, that I shouldn’t walk home alone, and that they wanted to fuck my mother and my sister. This led to more years of merciless bullying, but it was nothing compared to the nuns, who began every subsequent encounter with the declaration that I was not special, that I was just like everyone else, and that I shouldn’t get ideas. They all wanted to slap me across the face, and they all did.
When I was 4, my brother was getting ready for Confirmation, which is like a Catholic Bar Mitzvah. Back then, they held out the Baltimore Catechism as something we were obliged to memorize in our lifetime, which I’m sure no person in their right mind ever did. But before Confirmation, a kid had to memorize everything up to and including The Act of Contrition, which was the Mount Everest of prayers.
My brother struggled in a sweat at the kitchen table, my mother bearing down on him as he tried to recite the prayer as written, unable to get past: Oh my God I am heartily sorry. I loitered outside the kitchen door, listened to him read it through, and was amazed that he couldn’t repeat but seven words when he was finished. That he could read at all rendered him awesome, since I had yet to learn. I felt sorry for him in that moment, so I stepped thru the door and into the light. I recited the prayer perfectly, hoping to get my mother off his back, since the prayer is what she wanted to hear.
When I finished, they stared at me in the same way: bug eyed, mouths open. I was delighted. Then my brother launched himself across the table and began to beat the shit out of me. My mother pulled him off, but only to ask me: who do you think you are and how dare you? Then she slapped me across the face. I was struck dumb, and it was my first inkling that I should stay that way.
I was watching TV with my mother last week. We saw a guy who has the highest IQ on record. This guy is such a thug that the Guinness Book of Records got rid of the category, like they were suddenly ashamed of what intelligence really is, since even at its most optimistic, intelligence can paint a pretty bleak picture.
There was no denying that this guy was smart. He could see a world rid of disease, ecologically stable, and at peace in less than three generations, which is only 60 years. And he could even walk you through it. He could walk any idiot through it, since most of his social encounters were with drunks. That’s because he was a bouncer in a bar in Montana, so he was good at communicating with cowboys angling for a fight.
What most impressed me about the guy was his theory of God, which is more or less my own, and not a theory everyone would be likely to adopt, since belief plays no part. But in order to rid the world of disease, make peace, and save mankind from oblivion, it’s the only God you can afford. God, he said, is in the mind of man, and he is no less God for residing there. We perceive order. We can see deep into the past and far into the future. God is logic. I am God, he said.
This guy was huge, so you didn’t want to argue with him. So the guy off-camera asks if he should rule the world, and the bouncer says: why not? If I’m the smartest guy in the world, I should. If they find somebody smarter, I’ll follow him, no problem.
It was hard to imagine this guy ceding much ground, with world leadership determined in a cage match being the only imaginable way to decide. The guy off-camera is sold, so he asks him what he would do as the leader of mankind, and the genius doesn’t hesitate. He starts with worldwide birth control and a eugenics program, which pretty much takes care of health and ecology. Nations would be abolished, children taken from their parents, and all races mixed. Logic and Ethics would become our religion. If we don’t do these things, he said, mankind is doomed to perish.
My mother sat rapt through the whole thing. I could see that she was thinking of ways to use this guy. Maybe he could start as an Assemblyman, work his way up to Congress, which is how she sees world leadership – machine politics with Democrats in charge. Her only comment came at the end, one sentence to him as his face loomed on TV: I have some news for you, Mr. Genius.
In 1963 the nuns gave us a test. They told us in advance that the score didn’t matter. In fact, we wouldn’t be finding out the score, since it was more of an experiment than a test. So we all sat there, tongues hanging out, our #2 pencils filling out dots, entering numbers, and figuring out puzzles. It was more fun than I’d ever had at school. I felt bad about the third problem from the end, since I knew the answer was wrong, but by then I wasn’t paying attention.
After a couple of days, they said that a few of us would have to take the test again. The nun read a list that included the dumbest, most frightening kids in school, whose scores were so low that they were getting another chance. I was also on the list. I didn’t tell my mother. My heart raced until they re-tested us, which happened a few days later. I was more scared to be in a room with those guys than I was to take the test. I figured my only way out was to correct the antepenultimate question, which I did.
After that, things got really bad. The others settled on me as their bitch before the test was over. I finished first, but the nun wouldn’t let me leave, so I spent a half hour listening to some scary dudes whisper to me that I was a dead man, that I shouldn’t walk home alone, and that they wanted to fuck my mother and my sister. This led to more years of merciless bullying, but it was nothing compared to the nuns, who began every subsequent encounter with the declaration that I was not special, that I was just like everyone else, and that I shouldn’t get ideas. They all wanted to slap me across the face, and they all did.
When I was 4, my brother was getting ready for Confirmation, which is like a Catholic Bar Mitzvah. Back then, they held out the Baltimore Catechism as something we were obliged to memorize in our lifetime, which I’m sure no person in their right mind ever did. But before Confirmation, a kid had to memorize everything up to and including The Act of Contrition, which was the Mount Everest of prayers.
My brother struggled in a sweat at the kitchen table, my mother bearing down on him as he tried to recite the prayer as written, unable to get past: Oh my God I am heartily sorry. I loitered outside the kitchen door, listened to him read it through, and was amazed that he couldn’t repeat but seven words when he was finished. That he could read at all rendered him awesome, since I had yet to learn. I felt sorry for him in that moment, so I stepped thru the door and into the light. I recited the prayer perfectly, hoping to get my mother off his back, since the prayer is what she wanted to hear.
When I finished, they stared at me in the same way: bug eyed, mouths open. I was delighted. Then my brother launched himself across the table and began to beat the shit out of me. My mother pulled him off, but only to ask me: who do you think you are and how dare you? Then she slapped me across the face. I was struck dumb, and it was my first inkling that I should stay that way.
I was watching TV with my mother last week. We saw a guy who has the highest IQ on record. This guy is such a thug that the Guinness Book of Records got rid of the category, like they were suddenly ashamed of what intelligence really is, since even at its most optimistic, intelligence can paint a pretty bleak picture.
There was no denying that this guy was smart. He could see a world rid of disease, ecologically stable, and at peace in less than three generations, which is only 60 years. And he could even walk you through it. He could walk any idiot through it, since most of his social encounters were with drunks. That’s because he was a bouncer in a bar in Montana, so he was good at communicating with cowboys angling for a fight.
What most impressed me about the guy was his theory of God, which is more or less my own, and not a theory everyone would be likely to adopt, since belief plays no part. But in order to rid the world of disease, make peace, and save mankind from oblivion, it’s the only God you can afford. God, he said, is in the mind of man, and he is no less God for residing there. We perceive order. We can see deep into the past and far into the future. God is logic. I am God, he said.
This guy was huge, so you didn’t want to argue with him. So the guy off-camera asks if he should rule the world, and the bouncer says: why not? If I’m the smartest guy in the world, I should. If they find somebody smarter, I’ll follow him, no problem.
It was hard to imagine this guy ceding much ground, with world leadership determined in a cage match being the only imaginable way to decide. The guy off-camera is sold, so he asks him what he would do as the leader of mankind, and the genius doesn’t hesitate. He starts with worldwide birth control and a eugenics program, which pretty much takes care of health and ecology. Nations would be abolished, children taken from their parents, and all races mixed. Logic and Ethics would become our religion. If we don’t do these things, he said, mankind is doomed to perish.
My mother sat rapt through the whole thing. I could see that she was thinking of ways to use this guy. Maybe he could start as an Assemblyman, work his way up to Congress, which is how she sees world leadership – machine politics with Democrats in charge. Her only comment came at the end, one sentence to him as his face loomed on TV: I have some news for you, Mr. Genius.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Foolproof Pizza
Every day you should ask yourself: what am I doing here? And you should acknowledge that you haven’t the faintest idea. You aren’t here on purpose and you didn’t decide anything. You’re a victim of circumstance. You’re lonely and you’re afraid, so you look for company.
Some people go to Mass, where they treat you by serving up the body of Christ, one bite at a time, like hors d’oeuvres. Everybody knows that sharing food is the best way to get people together, even if it means eating the messenger. Share a pizza is my advice, as it’s much better than what they’re serving at St. Monica’s. Plus, you get to talk to the other victims of circumstance instead of thinking about your own circumstances, or worse, sit and listen to that toupee with a collar.
Light the oven and wait until it’s at least 450 degrees Fahrenheit. Then wait some more, because 500 is much better. Don’t even think about making pizza in anything less. And if you don’t have a good stone, don’t even get started.
Doubt the dough. Nothing you make is going to compare to the stuff you had in Naples, but let’s face it, this isn’t Naples, and you should be pretty happy about that. If you’re making it yourself, use 00 flour. I get my dough from a place on Arthur Ave and if you don’t mind, I’ll keep that to myself. What goes on top is up to you. Don’t get too ambitious. Start with oil, salt, and rosemary - or maybe some marinara and anchovies. If it’s cheese you need, use less than you think. It’s more than enough.
Some people go to Mass, where they treat you by serving up the body of Christ, one bite at a time, like hors d’oeuvres. Everybody knows that sharing food is the best way to get people together, even if it means eating the messenger. Share a pizza is my advice, as it’s much better than what they’re serving at St. Monica’s. Plus, you get to talk to the other victims of circumstance instead of thinking about your own circumstances, or worse, sit and listen to that toupee with a collar.
Light the oven and wait until it’s at least 450 degrees Fahrenheit. Then wait some more, because 500 is much better. Don’t even think about making pizza in anything less. And if you don’t have a good stone, don’t even get started.
Doubt the dough. Nothing you make is going to compare to the stuff you had in Naples, but let’s face it, this isn’t Naples, and you should be pretty happy about that. If you’re making it yourself, use 00 flour. I get my dough from a place on Arthur Ave and if you don’t mind, I’ll keep that to myself. What goes on top is up to you. Don’t get too ambitious. Start with oil, salt, and rosemary - or maybe some marinara and anchovies. If it’s cheese you need, use less than you think. It’s more than enough.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Rex
You are an oxymoron, a bully and a coward both. You are the unabashed hypocrite, saying one thing, meaning another, and expecting to be understood. You are the cad who seeks to justify the absence of devotion in the name of love. You live on the kindness of others and show none in return. You are the pauper king, the tragic clown, the devil in paradise. You admire the best and inspire the worst. You're a friend who's not.
I had a dog once. Couldn't get rid of him. He always bit me when I fed him. Wouldn't come out from under the bed. Loved to eat vomit. He even ate shit, which was easier to come by, every time he got the chance. As much as I can love a dog, this one was tough. Never came to me when I called, always pissed on the rug, smelled foul, hated water.
He got the mange. His fur was falling out in clumps. He wouldn't let me near him with the medicine. And he kept trying to mount all the other dogs whenever we went out for a walk. His condition seemed to give him a constant hard on. The other dogs would run and their owners scream as my mangy, shit-smelling companion tried to fuck them from behind.
My dog was starting to reflect on me. Everybody told me, get rid of the dog. But I somehow felt honor bound to keep him. Should a man stick by his dog? Is it a question of honor? Or is honor just a consideration between men? In any case, the dog and I parted company.
But I didn't have the heart to kill the dog. I just turned him out. I eventually saw the cruelty in that, because a dead dog is better than a mangy one without a master. So, I called him home. This was the beginning of a terrible pattern. In, out, in, out. The poor dog didn't know if it was coming or going.
Now, I live in a small town. Everybody's got a dog, and everybody's an expert. Some said to call the vet, others said to do it myself. But, I don't own a gun. So what could I do? Write my dog a letter? I hated the idea of calling the vet. I hate getting on the phone with somebody to talk about a sick dog and how to get rid of it. Setting a date seemed impossible. I was stuck, so I left town.
People said that was the cruelest thing I could do. Face the dog, they said. Pet it and love it. Kiss it behind its ear and feed it steak. And then, when it's in its ecstasy, blow its head off.
I tried to imagine loving my dog, kissing the hairy scabs behind its reeking ears. I thought I could actually smell it, when I realized that the dog had followed me to my new town. So I threw him a steak and borrowed a gun. But this was one smart dog. He didn't touch the steak. I never fired a shot.
I stopped feeding him, stopped leaving food outside my door, looking for him outside the window. He came anyway. I began to feel that he would outlive me. And then, suddenly, he disappeared.
I heard that an old lady across Broad St. was feeding him. A big bowl of kibbles twice a day. They said that she loved him and that she even let him sleep in her bed, though I found that hard to believe.
When I finally saw my dog again, he looked great. Coat, eyes, and teeth all shining. I saw him first at a distance, frolicking. When he spotted me he came close and sniffed my hand. He had a new collar. His nose was cold and wet. His breath was sweet. I was glad to see him. And then, a horrible thing happened. When I turned to go, he followed me home.
What do you expect? people said, he's your dog. But I'm no good for him, I said. He doesn't know any better, they answered, he's a dog. I did try to find the lady who loved him, but I heard that she left town, her heart broken.
When my dog finally died, he was in the hands of the authorities. They took him away when he started foaming at the mouth. It took them forever to catch him but in the end, he just keeled over. He caught me with a baleful eye as they loaded him into the back of a van. That was the last time I saw him. But sometimes, just as I'm sitting down to dinner, I seem to hear a faint scratching at the door. I want to get up, to peek outside.
I had a dog once. Couldn't get rid of him. He always bit me when I fed him. Wouldn't come out from under the bed. Loved to eat vomit. He even ate shit, which was easier to come by, every time he got the chance. As much as I can love a dog, this one was tough. Never came to me when I called, always pissed on the rug, smelled foul, hated water.
He got the mange. His fur was falling out in clumps. He wouldn't let me near him with the medicine. And he kept trying to mount all the other dogs whenever we went out for a walk. His condition seemed to give him a constant hard on. The other dogs would run and their owners scream as my mangy, shit-smelling companion tried to fuck them from behind.
My dog was starting to reflect on me. Everybody told me, get rid of the dog. But I somehow felt honor bound to keep him. Should a man stick by his dog? Is it a question of honor? Or is honor just a consideration between men? In any case, the dog and I parted company.
But I didn't have the heart to kill the dog. I just turned him out. I eventually saw the cruelty in that, because a dead dog is better than a mangy one without a master. So, I called him home. This was the beginning of a terrible pattern. In, out, in, out. The poor dog didn't know if it was coming or going.
Now, I live in a small town. Everybody's got a dog, and everybody's an expert. Some said to call the vet, others said to do it myself. But, I don't own a gun. So what could I do? Write my dog a letter? I hated the idea of calling the vet. I hate getting on the phone with somebody to talk about a sick dog and how to get rid of it. Setting a date seemed impossible. I was stuck, so I left town.
People said that was the cruelest thing I could do. Face the dog, they said. Pet it and love it. Kiss it behind its ear and feed it steak. And then, when it's in its ecstasy, blow its head off.
I tried to imagine loving my dog, kissing the hairy scabs behind its reeking ears. I thought I could actually smell it, when I realized that the dog had followed me to my new town. So I threw him a steak and borrowed a gun. But this was one smart dog. He didn't touch the steak. I never fired a shot.
I stopped feeding him, stopped leaving food outside my door, looking for him outside the window. He came anyway. I began to feel that he would outlive me. And then, suddenly, he disappeared.
I heard that an old lady across Broad St. was feeding him. A big bowl of kibbles twice a day. They said that she loved him and that she even let him sleep in her bed, though I found that hard to believe.
When I finally saw my dog again, he looked great. Coat, eyes, and teeth all shining. I saw him first at a distance, frolicking. When he spotted me he came close and sniffed my hand. He had a new collar. His nose was cold and wet. His breath was sweet. I was glad to see him. And then, a horrible thing happened. When I turned to go, he followed me home.
What do you expect? people said, he's your dog. But I'm no good for him, I said. He doesn't know any better, they answered, he's a dog. I did try to find the lady who loved him, but I heard that she left town, her heart broken.
When my dog finally died, he was in the hands of the authorities. They took him away when he started foaming at the mouth. It took them forever to catch him but in the end, he just keeled over. He caught me with a baleful eye as they loaded him into the back of a van. That was the last time I saw him. But sometimes, just as I'm sitting down to dinner, I seem to hear a faint scratching at the door. I want to get up, to peek outside.
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