AND NAAH, the spray wasn't that hard.
As I suppose anyone knows,
one must protect a hose-ho's nose,
with it being so exposed,
as Gomez the hose-ho's nose is.
But as the summer heat grows
and the garden hose flows,
a hose-ho's nose will strike a pose:
to get the ever-lovin' snot blown out of it.
ah, joy.
Gomez Explains Binary Code: A humble boxer demonstrates his grasp of computer arithmetic with zen-like precision.
In other news:
Dunkin Donuts has pulled a web ad featuring a photo of Rachael Ray, because it offends Fox News pundits. Michelle Malkin said Ray's paisley scarf resembles a Keffiyeh (middle-eastern headdress), and Fox News was quick to "educate" the American public that these scarves are the fingerprint of Palestinian terrorism.
That's right: Donut-eaters are now supporting worldwide terrorism. I'm lookin' at YOU, mister jelly-filled! You're in league with RACHAEL RAY! That giggling pixie is Guantanamo bound, and not a moment too soon!
Christ on a crapper, people!
Is it any wonder why Americans are seen as the over-privileged idiots of the world? If THIS is worthy of outrage, it would be fair to sack the talking heads of Fox News because they "could be mistaken" for actual journalists.
And finally:
Head over to Prince of Petworth, where my latest guest post went up yesterday: a brief examination (with some selfish navel-gazing) about the McMillan Reservoir, and its place in the neighborhood. Good stuff.
You gonna finish that donut? I didn't bring lunch today...
What the hell is all that noise?
Now, don't get me wrong... I love the birds. In many cases, more than humans. Birds have it made. They've discovered a life of true bliss: If you're a bird, you can hang out all day, poop where you stand, and if things get dull, you can, like, fly around and stuff. And if you happen to be a raptor, you can fly around like a ROCKSTAR and terrorize the little guys once in a while. "Doing donuts" in the neighbor's airspace like a ruffian biker. Zoom down to the ground, pluck a mouse out of the grass, and give the little bastard a lesson in Natural Selection.
It is absolutely THE LIFE.
But for the past few days, there has been a riot of activity in the two trees above our back yard, particularly in the mornings. Gomez is noticing it as well, and it's hilarious: He will run out, do his "biological imperatives" and then sit quietly, staring up at the colossal oak tree and furrow his brow thoughtfully.
What the hell is all that noise?
It sounds like an orchestra of shortwave radios all scanning different frequencies; a bubbling, tweaking, rage of static as if each leaf in those trees is receiving police-band signals from the third moon of Jupiter.....
Those are all birds? Must be thirty million of 'em.
So I finally sat with the dog, studying the trees. And we discovered that it's not just "birds", it's the starlings. And it's not just starlings, but the starlings' children.
They've all got identical little ones; almost full-size, ash-gray, and screaming their hunger into the void, while pop (or is it mom in the starling family?) runs around frantically, looking for food. Or a toy, or a comic book, or that Elmo DVD...something to keep Junior quiet.
So as a public service, I felt I should pass on this great discovery. It would seem that every starling in the world had a kid on the same day, and they're all freaking out simultaneously. Gomez remains fascinated. Someday, those gray downy screamers will all leave home for college and the starling parents will wonder if they've done the right thing... and is it too soon to rent out Junior's room?
Talk about "empty nester" syndrome.
I've been in the wind-tunnel of magazine deadlines for a while. Thus blog activity, photo activity, and musical activity have all come to a jittery, caffeinated, crashing halt.
Reality should come back by Wednesday.
But for now, a brief pause... I left the office typically late and M met me at The Heights for a light dinner and a couple of pints.
She brought a small rubber chicken, thus proving her superhuman level of pure awesomeness.
Ten points and infinite glory in paradise for the first one to identify the source of the title. Without looking it up, I mean. 'Cuz I'll KNOW, dig?
More deep journalistic substance Wednesday.
Wikipedia defines vivisection as "any experimental cutting of, or surgery on, a living organism. More broadly, the term is often used today to describe any experiment upon living animals."
So we're talking about the broader definition here: No cutting, but definitely experimenting.
Firstly: One of the two creatures in the photo ATE A LIVE BUMBLEBEE this morning. And it wasn't the handsome chap on the right.
This, on top of the fact that we're now 24 hours into weaning him onto Science Diet's Lamb & Rice formula, should be interesting (Science Diet products are legendary for their ability to produce, uh, explosive digestive conditions if not introduced gradually into a dog's diet).
So now we've got a potentially volatile food in there, with a pissed-off bumblebee ghost sitting on top of it. The quintessential "recipe for disaster"?
And who said animal experimentation wasn't great fun?
It unfolded like one of the great Viking Sagas, I tell you...
The greater DC area Boxer Meetup for February was today, at a fenced dog park in Annandale, Virginia. It was a long haul for us DC folks, but not bad. Gomez wasn't driving anyway, so he had no reason to complain.
Some 37 members of the meetup group had sent a positive RSVP through the website, so I figured if even a decent percent turned up, it would be a swirling vortex of BOXER MADNESS.
But they came. A polite trickle at first, and then.....
Xerxes (the fawn) came from nowhere, it seemed, and he had chosen Gomez (the brindle) for the great smackdown of the century.
Gomez snapped into action at the first hint of challenge: Put yer paw on ME, eh fawnie? I'll have your nose for lunch! Bwah!
But no! Xerxes deploys the great Kung Fu Freakout Paw technique, in an attempt to stun Gomez with rancid Kung Fu extremism! It is like a puppy-toe that points to the moon...
NO, I shout to Gomez: Don't look at the puppy-toe, or you'll miss ALL THE HEAVENLY GLORY!
Gomez gets the Enter the Dragon reference right away and snaps out of his stupor just in time to deliver a Johnny Sokko/Flying Robot-style superpunch that sends Xerxes reeling back, smashing several of Tokyo's office buildings to rubble! Oh the humanity!
Panting with fatigue, the warriors nod to each other; a wordless agreement of stalemate. We are boxers. We are awesome. This fight cannot be won. This is a total, like, mutually-assured-destruction trip we're on, man, yeah...
NO! Super-uncool fakeout technique! Xerxes signals to his henchman Boxer X (didn't get his name), and the two overwhelm Gomez in a shocker flipout wrestling move! I shall call it The Flying Fungus! What will become of Gomez now?!!?
He laughs at the sunlight in total idiotic glory: What the hell were we fighting about again?
Quite the milestone, this was...
Gomez hit the big OH-ONE yesterday.
He was born 29dec06 in Gettysburg, PA. It was a gorgeous litter, but he was definitely the King-Ultra-Lord-Captain and overall groovy guy of the bunch. That was clear even at 4 weeks old, when we first saw him. And again at 8 weeks, when he came home to DC. 
His mum is in the deepest wilds of Virginia this weekend, visiting some relatives. This means the birthday was just us DUDES. It was a real man's event; a coming-of-age ritual worthy of the Viking champions:
A good blast of chaos at the dog park: running, wrestling, and freaking out, followed by a good hearty meal at home and running in spastic circles around the living room, chasing the rope/tennis-ball thing while blasting the greatest friggin' rock 'n roll album of all time (recently reissued on 180-gram vinyl, gods be praised). Thereafter, much loud, terrible, warrior-quality snoring.
The snoring was all him. I can't compete with that.
Gomez has been a bouncing bucket o' good vibes, and it has been a sweet honor to witness this monster develop. Maybe someday he'll grow into that great flopping mouth of his. Happy birthday, sugarbutt.
And now, a minor update on a recent post: The memorial in the median of Sherman Avenue at Columbia Road has mysteriously been elevated off the ground about two feet. Is there a safety-regulation height for memorial construction?
OR is this intended to be a karmic nightmare for people stopped at the light in tall SUVs who need to be glared at by a creepy fuscia bunny and a peach girlie-bear?
Be careful out there, people.
Gus was the Mayor of Irving Street, and he had a million friends. Particularly amongst the walking rush-hour crowd.
Practically every morning, as I stumbled in a sleepy haze towards the bus stop at 14th Street, that cat greeted me on the sidewalk with a mumbled mowr, and the droopy-eyed look of indifference that old cats develop. Sometimes it sounded like he was sympathizing with my fatigue and desire to just crawl back to the pillow that hatched me an hour before... And sometimes I think he was ordering me to move along and stop interrupting his Very Important Loitering.
Gus never roamed far from his stoop, on the 1300 block of Irving Street, and he became as recognizable a face as the crossing guard on the corner, or the guy selling the morning Post from a plastic chair on the side of the road...
Now there's a memorial on the sidewalk, with items added from people around the neighborhood. It's funny, touching, and sad--but it illustrates one reason why I love Columbia Heights, even with its occasional hemorrhages of violence and crime. This kind of spontaneous memorial never would have happened in friggin' Glenmont.
And all this, from a guy allergic enough to cats to restrict all Gus Contact to a single index finger, for boopin' on the nose. For Gus, I'm sure that boopin' was quite enough. Anyway.
Git thee to Valhalla, dude. There's a sidewalk in the Summerland with your name on it.
So I came home today and found a crippled turquoise pigeon at my door. This is not normal.
