Our Story (ongoing)
(Find it also on Facebook.)
November 23, 2020
I have to put this story on hold for just a little while.
There’s plenty more to tell, about the rest of that wonderful road trip with all of the guys, about the offer we received to FINALLY resurrect “The Movie,” and about the final Big Shake-Up at Corporate that was seemingly right around the corner.
But for the moment, events outside of my control have demanded my full (fuller) attention. So I’m going to sign off, here, for a while.
Be good. Be happy. Be safe. And hold onto the ones you love!
I have to put this story on hold for just a little while.
There’s plenty more to tell, about the rest of that wonderful road trip with all of the guys, about the offer we received to FINALLY resurrect “The Movie,” and about the final Big Shake-Up at Corporate that was seemingly right around the corner.
But for the moment, events outside of my control have demanded my full (fuller) attention. So I’m going to sign off, here, for a while.
Be good. Be happy. Be safe. And hold onto the ones you love!
November 21, 2020
They certainly looked happy enough.
All 6 of them.
But we hadn’t adopted SIX sheepdog puppies. We’d adopted (reluctantly) THREE. Sherman, Tyrone, and Claire.
So who were these other three puppies?
Unfortunately, the more immediate (and rather embarrassing) question was: Which three of these puppies were Sherman, Tyrone, and Claire? Cuz I certainly couldn’t tell. They all looked pretty much alike to ME.
I felt a moment of panic, assuming that all 6 of these little tykes would be wanting to join the jamboree (so to speak). Run off to the circus (meaning: us). Leaving their parents to wonder (forever) where their little darlings had gone to. Worried, even, that they’d been kidnapped.
And I also assumed that, if they were all determined to join our traveling troupe, they wouldn’t be making it easy for me to determine exactly WHICH of them were the real Sherman, Tyrone, and Claire.
They were definitely way too young to give me the “My name is Spartacus / MY NAME is Spartacus” routine, but they also weren’t gonna make it easy for me.
FORTUNATELY, the other guys—my fellow “Real Dogs Cook” buddies-- are DOGS, so distinguishing one puppy’s scent from another’s was the easiest thing in the world for THEM.
So I yelled over to Fifi, who’d snuck out of the Tour Bus and was chatting up a couple of part-German Shepherd mutts over by the convenience-store dumpsters, and she came trotting over and cleared my confusion up in half-a-second. She gave Tyrone and Sherman and Claire affectionate taps on the head and told them to hustle their butts into The Bus before she French-fried their little tails into smithereens. Then she turned to the other three innocent-looking puppies and ordered them to “run home before I have to call the authorities.”
That did the trick, in a jiffy.
So we all piled back onto The Bus and headed “home.”
And none too soon, for me.
They certainly looked happy enough.
All 6 of them.
But we hadn’t adopted SIX sheepdog puppies. We’d adopted (reluctantly) THREE. Sherman, Tyrone, and Claire.
So who were these other three puppies?
Unfortunately, the more immediate (and rather embarrassing) question was: Which three of these puppies were Sherman, Tyrone, and Claire? Cuz I certainly couldn’t tell. They all looked pretty much alike to ME.
I felt a moment of panic, assuming that all 6 of these little tykes would be wanting to join the jamboree (so to speak). Run off to the circus (meaning: us). Leaving their parents to wonder (forever) where their little darlings had gone to. Worried, even, that they’d been kidnapped.
And I also assumed that, if they were all determined to join our traveling troupe, they wouldn’t be making it easy for me to determine exactly WHICH of them were the real Sherman, Tyrone, and Claire.
They were definitely way too young to give me the “My name is Spartacus / MY NAME is Spartacus” routine, but they also weren’t gonna make it easy for me.
FORTUNATELY, the other guys—my fellow “Real Dogs Cook” buddies-- are DOGS, so distinguishing one puppy’s scent from another’s was the easiest thing in the world for THEM.
So I yelled over to Fifi, who’d snuck out of the Tour Bus and was chatting up a couple of part-German Shepherd mutts over by the convenience-store dumpsters, and she came trotting over and cleared my confusion up in half-a-second. She gave Tyrone and Sherman and Claire affectionate taps on the head and told them to hustle their butts into The Bus before she French-fried their little tails into smithereens. Then she turned to the other three innocent-looking puppies and ordered them to “run home before I have to call the authorities.”
That did the trick, in a jiffy.
So we all piled back onto The Bus and headed “home.”
And none too soon, for me.
November 19, 2020
So Barnacle Bill made a bee-line back to the Kenny’s Quick Lube parking lot, where we all hoped we’d find the 3 sheepdog puppies safe and sound. Forgotten, yes, but only temporarily. (This WAS getting to be a disturbing habit. But habits can be broken. First thing: we had to find them.
Just a scant few minutes later, Bill swerved the Tour Bus off the road and into the parking lot. Fortunately, by the most of the “attendees” had left, so there was plenty of room in the parking lot for Bill to rumble The Bus around before he settled into an apparently-acceptable parking space. (The Bus DOES require some breathing room.)
So then the search could commence.
We all (the dogs and I) piled out of The Bus and looked around. Astonishingly, there wasn’t another dog in sight. Not a single one.
At least the County Health people had packed up and split, so we didn’t have to deal with them again. But I sincerely hoped that they hadn’t spotted 3 unattended sheepdog puppies and decided to haul them off to “The Pound.”
I spotted Allison’s cable-TV station mobile uplink van over by the temporary “car wash,” so I hustled over there so see if she’d seen the 3 puppies anytime recently.
And not only had she SEEN them. They were INSIDE OF her van.
Which was, of course, a relief.
There was another problem, though. (There’s ALWAYS a problem, isn’t there?)
It wasn’t 3 sheepdogs
It was 6.
That’s right. 6.
As in: 3 too many.
3 more than we’d bargained for.
I just stood there, looking into the open door of the van, wondering what to do next.
3 puppies had somehow morphed into 6.
Now what?
So Barnacle Bill made a bee-line back to the Kenny’s Quick Lube parking lot, where we all hoped we’d find the 3 sheepdog puppies safe and sound. Forgotten, yes, but only temporarily. (This WAS getting to be a disturbing habit. But habits can be broken. First thing: we had to find them.
Just a scant few minutes later, Bill swerved the Tour Bus off the road and into the parking lot. Fortunately, by the most of the “attendees” had left, so there was plenty of room in the parking lot for Bill to rumble The Bus around before he settled into an apparently-acceptable parking space. (The Bus DOES require some breathing room.)
So then the search could commence.
We all (the dogs and I) piled out of The Bus and looked around. Astonishingly, there wasn’t another dog in sight. Not a single one.
At least the County Health people had packed up and split, so we didn’t have to deal with them again. But I sincerely hoped that they hadn’t spotted 3 unattended sheepdog puppies and decided to haul them off to “The Pound.”
I spotted Allison’s cable-TV station mobile uplink van over by the temporary “car wash,” so I hustled over there so see if she’d seen the 3 puppies anytime recently.
And not only had she SEEN them. They were INSIDE OF her van.
Which was, of course, a relief.
There was another problem, though. (There’s ALWAYS a problem, isn’t there?)
It wasn’t 3 sheepdogs
It was 6.
That’s right. 6.
As in: 3 too many.
3 more than we’d bargained for.
I just stood there, looking into the open door of the van, wondering what to do next.
3 puppies had somehow morphed into 6.
Now what?
November 18, 2020
Not that we got far.
We’d driven no more than a mile before somebody realized that we’d lost “the kids.” The sheepdog puppies. Remember them? Sherman, Tyrone, and Claire?
Well, we’d obviously temporarily forgotten about them.
Which seemed to be developing into a habit.
So Barnacle Bill slammed on the brakes and pulled the Tour Bus off to the side of the road. Then, thinking better of it, immediately threw it back into “Drive” and pulled a sweeping U-turn, almost wiping out a good half-dozen civilian vehicles that were just driving around RESPONSIBLY. (You don’t want to be driving around, responsibly or not, ANYWHERE NEAR a bus driven by Bill. Even on a good day. And I wouldn’t claim that today had thus far been an especially “good” day. As in: care-free. But then, public appearances with my 8 trouble-in-the-making prima donnas seldom were.)
We’ve had an ongoing debate for the past… many months… over who was potentially the worse driver: Terry Scraps or Barnacle Bill Barker.
I, personally, would argue that Bill’s experience of steering Boston Whalers and Maine lobster boats threw crowded sea lanes should give him “the nod,” in a good sense. In theory, at least.
Terry’s defense seems to rest on how he has to tow his LA-based taqueria threw some pretty daunting big-city traffic. Plus the fact that he really does have to tow his “taco trolley” behind his full-size pickup truck, which can lead what Barnacle Bill would label some pretty severe yawing maneuvers. (Especially, Terry says, when he’s just realized he’s about to miss an exit on one of those high-speed LA freeways.) I can close my eyes and just picture that pickup-taqueria combo sloughing back and forth across several lanes of bumper-to-bumper 70-mph freeway traffic.
Yet another reason to feel grateful that we were spending a few relaxing days in Tidewater Virginia. Far away from the pressures and stress of urban living.
Not that we got far.
We’d driven no more than a mile before somebody realized that we’d lost “the kids.” The sheepdog puppies. Remember them? Sherman, Tyrone, and Claire?
Well, we’d obviously temporarily forgotten about them.
Which seemed to be developing into a habit.
So Barnacle Bill slammed on the brakes and pulled the Tour Bus off to the side of the road. Then, thinking better of it, immediately threw it back into “Drive” and pulled a sweeping U-turn, almost wiping out a good half-dozen civilian vehicles that were just driving around RESPONSIBLY. (You don’t want to be driving around, responsibly or not, ANYWHERE NEAR a bus driven by Bill. Even on a good day. And I wouldn’t claim that today had thus far been an especially “good” day. As in: care-free. But then, public appearances with my 8 trouble-in-the-making prima donnas seldom were.)
We’ve had an ongoing debate for the past… many months… over who was potentially the worse driver: Terry Scraps or Barnacle Bill Barker.
I, personally, would argue that Bill’s experience of steering Boston Whalers and Maine lobster boats threw crowded sea lanes should give him “the nod,” in a good sense. In theory, at least.
Terry’s defense seems to rest on how he has to tow his LA-based taqueria threw some pretty daunting big-city traffic. Plus the fact that he really does have to tow his “taco trolley” behind his full-size pickup truck, which can lead what Barnacle Bill would label some pretty severe yawing maneuvers. (Especially, Terry says, when he’s just realized he’s about to miss an exit on one of those high-speed LA freeways.) I can close my eyes and just picture that pickup-taqueria combo sloughing back and forth across several lanes of bumper-to-bumper 70-mph freeway traffic.
Yet another reason to feel grateful that we were spending a few relaxing days in Tidewater Virginia. Far away from the pressures and stress of urban living.
November 16, 2020
I assume that Butch offered to pay the good Doctor Schmidt a house call, if he couldn’t decipher Butch’s cookbook.
(Not that I ever heard of anyone needing help with Butch’s instructions. They’re made for experts and novices alike. Maybe Butch really wanted to get the chance to meet the good doctor’s pair of bulldogs. From what I’ve heard of Butch’s father, his many travels and his good-hearted philandering, there’s always the possibility—in Butch’s mind—that other bulldogs might very well be RELATIVES. As in: half-brothers and –sisters.)
Be that as it may, by the time Butch and Dr. Schmidt had finished their confab, the County Health Department was more than convinced that WE couldn’t have had anything to do with this mass-food-poisoning misfortune. Or should I say: that SUZIE hadn’t had anything to do with it. (After all, they were HER spring rolls.)
So we were allowed to pack up the show, hop back on the Tour Bus…
… and get the hell out of there.
As in: SCRAM!
We didn’t want any more trouble from “the authorities,” be they “health officials” or “public safety officers” (like up in Baltimore) or any other type of maybe-throw-you-in-jail badge-holders.
And I certainly didn’t want the suits back at Corporate hearing about this latest fiasco. We were already in the proverbial “doghouse” over the recent misunderstanding in Baltimore.
So we piled into The Bus and got out of there… pronto!
(After, shaking paws all around with Kenny and of course Deputy Rick’s wife Allison, whose bright idea this cooking demonstration had been, plus Allison’s camera crew from the TV station and all of the totally-helpful folks who’d been working Kenny’s Grand Opening: the car wash teenagers, the pretty oil-change models in form-fitting coveralls, and the food purveyors, as well… It wasn’t THEIR FAULT, after all, that Kenny had opted to save a few bucks by buying dicey hot dogs.
(And before we departed, Barnacle Bill in particular wanted to assure Allison that we’d all be available—back at the “guest house”—for more interviews and “celebrity promo shots” for her TV station. Bill’s got that constant self-promotion gene that all of the dogs have, to one degree or another. There’s never a barnstorming stop, to his mind, that doesn’t offer a myriad of self-serving self-publicizing opportunities… And what else would we be doing back at the house, anyway? There’s only so much swimming and scuba diving and group cooking these guys can do, before they start getting antsy to get in some other form of trouble. So doing some innocent PR work might keep them busy… for a while, at least.)
At any rate, after all the thank-you’s and see-you-later’s and let’s-do-it-again-soon’s were taken care of, we all piled back on the Tour Bus and gunned it out of there. “Leadfoot” Bill, at the wheel.
I swear: It’s amazing there’s any tread left on our tires, the way Bill drives.
I assume that Butch offered to pay the good Doctor Schmidt a house call, if he couldn’t decipher Butch’s cookbook.
(Not that I ever heard of anyone needing help with Butch’s instructions. They’re made for experts and novices alike. Maybe Butch really wanted to get the chance to meet the good doctor’s pair of bulldogs. From what I’ve heard of Butch’s father, his many travels and his good-hearted philandering, there’s always the possibility—in Butch’s mind—that other bulldogs might very well be RELATIVES. As in: half-brothers and –sisters.)
Be that as it may, by the time Butch and Dr. Schmidt had finished their confab, the County Health Department was more than convinced that WE couldn’t have had anything to do with this mass-food-poisoning misfortune. Or should I say: that SUZIE hadn’t had anything to do with it. (After all, they were HER spring rolls.)
So we were allowed to pack up the show, hop back on the Tour Bus…
… and get the hell out of there.
As in: SCRAM!
We didn’t want any more trouble from “the authorities,” be they “health officials” or “public safety officers” (like up in Baltimore) or any other type of maybe-throw-you-in-jail badge-holders.
And I certainly didn’t want the suits back at Corporate hearing about this latest fiasco. We were already in the proverbial “doghouse” over the recent misunderstanding in Baltimore.
So we piled into The Bus and got out of there… pronto!
(After, shaking paws all around with Kenny and of course Deputy Rick’s wife Allison, whose bright idea this cooking demonstration had been, plus Allison’s camera crew from the TV station and all of the totally-helpful folks who’d been working Kenny’s Grand Opening: the car wash teenagers, the pretty oil-change models in form-fitting coveralls, and the food purveyors, as well… It wasn’t THEIR FAULT, after all, that Kenny had opted to save a few bucks by buying dicey hot dogs.
(And before we departed, Barnacle Bill in particular wanted to assure Allison that we’d all be available—back at the “guest house”—for more interviews and “celebrity promo shots” for her TV station. Bill’s got that constant self-promotion gene that all of the dogs have, to one degree or another. There’s never a barnstorming stop, to his mind, that doesn’t offer a myriad of self-serving self-publicizing opportunities… And what else would we be doing back at the house, anyway? There’s only so much swimming and scuba diving and group cooking these guys can do, before they start getting antsy to get in some other form of trouble. So doing some innocent PR work might keep them busy… for a while, at least.)
At any rate, after all the thank-you’s and see-you-later’s and let’s-do-it-again-soon’s were taken care of, we all piled back on the Tour Bus and gunned it out of there. “Leadfoot” Bill, at the wheel.
I swear: It’s amazing there’s any tread left on our tires, the way Bill drives.
November 13, 2020
Butch sorted things out, as best he could, with Dr. Schmidt, the bigwig from County Health.
Already most of the folks in the parking lot were starting to recover from whatever food poisoning they’d contracted.
It seemed fairly obvious that WE weren’t to blame for this. And by “WE,” I mostly mean SUZIE, cuz it was HER cooking demo and HER spring rolls.
Exhibit A: ME. Yours truly. I’d eaten ONE complimentary hot dog. I’d eaten ZERO spring rolls. And I got sick. Way past queasy. Not “get me to the hospital, quick!” sick, but definitely “throw up in the nearest bushes” sick. However you want to phrase it, not the way you’d want to spend a Saturday afternoon… Just for having taken the time to visit the Grand opening of the new Kenny’s Quick Lube. A free oil change and/or car wash shouldn’t come at the expense of suffering digestive spasms, abdominal cramping, and unexpected hot flashes. Which is precisely what so many attendees here had been experiencing.
But, as I say, the worst seemed to be over. People were clutching their stomachs, gasping for air, wiping the sweat from their foreheads, but at least the real-loud collective moaning had stopped, and I think we all felt that we were all going to LIVE. As in: SURVIVE.
Meanwhile, Butch and Dr. Schmidt seemed to have hit it off like champs. (Butch is like that. When he wants to turn on the charm, he’s a master. He’ll make you feel like family—close family—invite you to Thanksgiving, and maybe even offer to lend you a few bucks to see you through, all in the space of a toothy smile and good, firm paw shake.)
They’d found an empty picnic table over by the convenience-store dumpster, and Butch was showing the doctor one of the recipes in his book. From the paw motions Butch was making, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was his “Paste-and-Wrap Brisket.” Believe me, it’s killer recipe.
I’ll just quote a little from his intro:
“I was at a high-stakes cook-off in Nashville once, and they handed me a slab of meat that looked like it’d been run over by a truck. They all thought it was pretty funny, me bein’ the only dog in the competition. The joke being, I guess, that a dog’ll chew the gristle off a railroad tie. Well, not this boy.
“Underneath the road tar I found a 12-pound hunk of brisket, which is exactly what barbeque was meant for: to brighten the day of simple folks like you and me. Needless to say, I knew just what that brisket needed, and now I’m giving you the recipe I used to trot off with the gold medal that day in Nashville.”
Thus spake Butch. You’ll have to buy the book to hear the rest. But like I said, it’s a killer recipe. Buying that book of his would be the best 10-dollar investment opportunity to come down the pike for you in many a day. That I can guarantee.
Here’s the Amazon address again, in case you missed it: https://www.amazon.com/Barbeque-Bulldogs-Gourmet-Recipes-Cookbooks/dp/069229757X.
After you’ve bought your copy, you could write him a letter telling him how his recipes changed your life, and maybe he’d offer to come to your house and cook for you sometime. Give you some free cooking lessons.
As we saw earlier, in the pool back at our new-found vacation home, he might even offer to give you surfing lessons!
Butch sorted things out, as best he could, with Dr. Schmidt, the bigwig from County Health.
Already most of the folks in the parking lot were starting to recover from whatever food poisoning they’d contracted.
It seemed fairly obvious that WE weren’t to blame for this. And by “WE,” I mostly mean SUZIE, cuz it was HER cooking demo and HER spring rolls.
Exhibit A: ME. Yours truly. I’d eaten ONE complimentary hot dog. I’d eaten ZERO spring rolls. And I got sick. Way past queasy. Not “get me to the hospital, quick!” sick, but definitely “throw up in the nearest bushes” sick. However you want to phrase it, not the way you’d want to spend a Saturday afternoon… Just for having taken the time to visit the Grand opening of the new Kenny’s Quick Lube. A free oil change and/or car wash shouldn’t come at the expense of suffering digestive spasms, abdominal cramping, and unexpected hot flashes. Which is precisely what so many attendees here had been experiencing.
But, as I say, the worst seemed to be over. People were clutching their stomachs, gasping for air, wiping the sweat from their foreheads, but at least the real-loud collective moaning had stopped, and I think we all felt that we were all going to LIVE. As in: SURVIVE.
Meanwhile, Butch and Dr. Schmidt seemed to have hit it off like champs. (Butch is like that. When he wants to turn on the charm, he’s a master. He’ll make you feel like family—close family—invite you to Thanksgiving, and maybe even offer to lend you a few bucks to see you through, all in the space of a toothy smile and good, firm paw shake.)
They’d found an empty picnic table over by the convenience-store dumpster, and Butch was showing the doctor one of the recipes in his book. From the paw motions Butch was making, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was his “Paste-and-Wrap Brisket.” Believe me, it’s killer recipe.
I’ll just quote a little from his intro:
“I was at a high-stakes cook-off in Nashville once, and they handed me a slab of meat that looked like it’d been run over by a truck. They all thought it was pretty funny, me bein’ the only dog in the competition. The joke being, I guess, that a dog’ll chew the gristle off a railroad tie. Well, not this boy.
“Underneath the road tar I found a 12-pound hunk of brisket, which is exactly what barbeque was meant for: to brighten the day of simple folks like you and me. Needless to say, I knew just what that brisket needed, and now I’m giving you the recipe I used to trot off with the gold medal that day in Nashville.”
Thus spake Butch. You’ll have to buy the book to hear the rest. But like I said, it’s a killer recipe. Buying that book of his would be the best 10-dollar investment opportunity to come down the pike for you in many a day. That I can guarantee.
Here’s the Amazon address again, in case you missed it: https://www.amazon.com/Barbeque-Bulldogs-Gourmet-Recipes-Cookbooks/dp/069229757X.
After you’ve bought your copy, you could write him a letter telling him how his recipes changed your life, and maybe he’d offer to come to your house and cook for you sometime. Give you some free cooking lessons.
As we saw earlier, in the pool back at our new-found vacation home, he might even offer to give you surfing lessons!
November 12, 2020
If you follow Butch’s easy-breezy instructions, I’ll bet you next Sunday’s breakfast sausages that you’ll be totally satisfied.
As in: nothing left on your plate.
Here’s what MY plate looked like, moments after taking yesterday’s photo:
If you follow Butch’s easy-breezy instructions, I’ll bet you next Sunday’s breakfast sausages that you’ll be totally satisfied.
As in: nothing left on your plate.
Here’s what MY plate looked like, moments after taking yesterday’s photo:
November 11, 2020
So, by way of a slight digression:
I mentioned Butch’s white barbecue sauce, so I figured I’d print you a copy of it, in case you haven’t yet purchased your own copy of his book.
(Order here: https://www.amazon.com/Barbeque-Bulldogs-Gourmet-Recipes-Cookbooks/dp/069229757X.) It’s worth the 10 bucks!
I’m sure Butch wouldn’t mind me reproducing it here. And even if he did, I might try to convince him that it’s not really stealing sales from him. It’s more like “educational outreach.” I mean, a lot of folks don’t even know that white barbecue exists.
And wouldn’t the world be a poorer place without it?
So, without further ado, he we go:
DRIPPIN’ CHICKEN WITH BUTCH’S
SURPRISE WHITE BARBEQUE SAUCE
Pre-heat cooker to PRETTY HOT.
We’ll pull a couple of surprises here. First, let’s show those barnyard chickens our surprising sprinter’s speed. Nothing like the thrill of the hunt! (If you’re a city dog-- or a pacifist-- you’ll have to go to the store and buy your birds. It’s not as much fun as baggin’ ’em yourself, but down here on the farm we don’t get our toenails clipped in a salon, either, so it’s a trade-off.)
Anyway, get yourself a couple good-sized chickens. Cut ’em straight down the backbone and spread ’em open, like a butterfly. Dust ’em all over with salt, then set ’em skin-side-up on the grate, away from the heat. Again, we’re goin’ for indirect heat. (And here’s a trick to know: Always point the legs toward the heat. Dark meat takes longer to cook.) Close the lid on your cooker and settle down for a long nap.
When you wake up, the skin on your chickens should be a rich, golden brown. Find yourself a little bowl and a brush. Pour about 1 full scoop of vegetable oil into the bowl. Now carefully, brush the oil all over the birds-- skin-side first, then flip ’em over and baste the other side. Sprinkle a little black pepper on them after you’ve flipped ’em over.
Close the lid on your cooker and take a good long walk. Real long. We want to build up an appetite. (On your way out, maybe give those barnyard chickens another little scare!)
When you get back, we’ll check the birds. Stick your trusty meat thermometer into the thickest part of the thigh. We want it to cook until the needle points halfway between the pictures LIGHT CHICKEN and DARK CHICKEN. (If you don’t have a dipstick, try this: Twist one of the legs. If it won’t budge, you still got a ways to go.)
Which is good, because we need time to mix up our 2nd surprise: “Butch’s Fantastic White Dipping Sauce.”
Most folks have never heard of white BBQ sauce, much less ever tried it, but your guests will be stunned, believe me! They may never want ketchup-and-molasses barbeque again!
Here’s the ingredients:
1 jar mayonnaise
1 scoop white vinegar
1/2 scoop apple juice
1 splash lemon juice
1/2 paw black pepper and horseradish
a swipe unseasoned table salt and cayenne pepper
Pour all this stuff into a big bowl, stir it up real good with a flat stick. (And don’t worry about mayonnaise: eggs are good for our coats!) Whip it til you get tired.
Now, how are the chickens doing? What’s the thermometer read? Can you get that leg to twist?
When they’re done, remove from the grill one at a time and roll in the big bowl of dipping sauce. Cut the 2 chickens into pieces and place on serving platters. You can either pour the remaining sauce over them, or serve it in separate dipping bowls.
I’ll leave the side dishes to you, but I’d highly recommend a basket of grilled sliced bread, to sop up the leftover sauce.
And while we’re on the subject of making a mess (this comes up all the time on my radio show):
There is nothing unseemly about a grown dog wearing a bib. Hopefully I’m just preaching to the choir, but do you really think dribbling BBQ sauce and mashed potatoes all over yourself is becoming? Not at my table. Like my mama always said, “Good grooming starts at home.”
So enough of that, and I hope you come to relish this little surprise, one of the true secrets of the South: Butch’s peppery white barbeque sauce!
So, by way of a slight digression:
I mentioned Butch’s white barbecue sauce, so I figured I’d print you a copy of it, in case you haven’t yet purchased your own copy of his book.
(Order here: https://www.amazon.com/Barbeque-Bulldogs-Gourmet-Recipes-Cookbooks/dp/069229757X.) It’s worth the 10 bucks!
I’m sure Butch wouldn’t mind me reproducing it here. And even if he did, I might try to convince him that it’s not really stealing sales from him. It’s more like “educational outreach.” I mean, a lot of folks don’t even know that white barbecue exists.
And wouldn’t the world be a poorer place without it?
So, without further ado, he we go:
DRIPPIN’ CHICKEN WITH BUTCH’S
SURPRISE WHITE BARBEQUE SAUCE
Pre-heat cooker to PRETTY HOT.
We’ll pull a couple of surprises here. First, let’s show those barnyard chickens our surprising sprinter’s speed. Nothing like the thrill of the hunt! (If you’re a city dog-- or a pacifist-- you’ll have to go to the store and buy your birds. It’s not as much fun as baggin’ ’em yourself, but down here on the farm we don’t get our toenails clipped in a salon, either, so it’s a trade-off.)
Anyway, get yourself a couple good-sized chickens. Cut ’em straight down the backbone and spread ’em open, like a butterfly. Dust ’em all over with salt, then set ’em skin-side-up on the grate, away from the heat. Again, we’re goin’ for indirect heat. (And here’s a trick to know: Always point the legs toward the heat. Dark meat takes longer to cook.) Close the lid on your cooker and settle down for a long nap.
When you wake up, the skin on your chickens should be a rich, golden brown. Find yourself a little bowl and a brush. Pour about 1 full scoop of vegetable oil into the bowl. Now carefully, brush the oil all over the birds-- skin-side first, then flip ’em over and baste the other side. Sprinkle a little black pepper on them after you’ve flipped ’em over.
Close the lid on your cooker and take a good long walk. Real long. We want to build up an appetite. (On your way out, maybe give those barnyard chickens another little scare!)
When you get back, we’ll check the birds. Stick your trusty meat thermometer into the thickest part of the thigh. We want it to cook until the needle points halfway between the pictures LIGHT CHICKEN and DARK CHICKEN. (If you don’t have a dipstick, try this: Twist one of the legs. If it won’t budge, you still got a ways to go.)
Which is good, because we need time to mix up our 2nd surprise: “Butch’s Fantastic White Dipping Sauce.”
Most folks have never heard of white BBQ sauce, much less ever tried it, but your guests will be stunned, believe me! They may never want ketchup-and-molasses barbeque again!
Here’s the ingredients:
1 jar mayonnaise
1 scoop white vinegar
1/2 scoop apple juice
1 splash lemon juice
1/2 paw black pepper and horseradish
a swipe unseasoned table salt and cayenne pepper
Pour all this stuff into a big bowl, stir it up real good with a flat stick. (And don’t worry about mayonnaise: eggs are good for our coats!) Whip it til you get tired.
Now, how are the chickens doing? What’s the thermometer read? Can you get that leg to twist?
When they’re done, remove from the grill one at a time and roll in the big bowl of dipping sauce. Cut the 2 chickens into pieces and place on serving platters. You can either pour the remaining sauce over them, or serve it in separate dipping bowls.
I’ll leave the side dishes to you, but I’d highly recommend a basket of grilled sliced bread, to sop up the leftover sauce.
And while we’re on the subject of making a mess (this comes up all the time on my radio show):
There is nothing unseemly about a grown dog wearing a bib. Hopefully I’m just preaching to the choir, but do you really think dribbling BBQ sauce and mashed potatoes all over yourself is becoming? Not at my table. Like my mama always said, “Good grooming starts at home.”
So enough of that, and I hope you come to relish this little surprise, one of the true secrets of the South: Butch’s peppery white barbeque sauce!
November 10, 2020
So, irony of ironies, I felt really good that I felt this bad.
Cuz I was only feeling this bad because of the HOT DOGS. Not Suzie’s spring rolls!
(Everyone else in the parking lot felt lousy, too, cuz just about everyone had tried at least ONE of Kenny’s free hot dogs.)
(And the dogs, of course, had eaten as many as they could snatch. Which meant that quite a few of them were in pretty bad shape.)
I was hoping that we could survive this episode without a trip to the veterinarian. (My guys are very pro-science, but that doesn’t include trips to the vet. And especially: trips to the vet for themselves. Wellness checks, even, are fine, but best conducted via the internet. As far as they’re concerned, there are NO good grounds for actually visiting a vet’s office.)
But first, I had to get County Health off our backs.
So I did what I usually (almost always do):
I sauntered over to their largest County Health vehicle, assuming that that van would be HQ for Field Operations, and struck up a “casual” conversation with one of the paramedics. Who pointed me toward Dr. Schmidt, who was across the parking lot near the free car wash supervising the nurses who were taking people’s temperatures… and who “casually” mentioned that Dr. Schmidt owned a pair of nasty-to-everyone-not-named-Doctor-Schmidt bulldogs and also LOVED barbecue…
You can see where this is going, I think.
So I real-quick found Butch, who didn’t seem to be suffering too much—at least compared to Maggie and Howie and Fifi—filled him in on “the situation,” and had him scamper over to the Tour Bus and grab a copy of his cookbook. You know: “Barbeque for Bulldogs.” One-time Amazon “Cookbook of the Year,” best-seller on 3 continents and a number of off-shore islands, and definitely the one book I’d consult if I were looking for the ultimate WHITE barbecue sauce.
So, irony of ironies, I felt really good that I felt this bad.
Cuz I was only feeling this bad because of the HOT DOGS. Not Suzie’s spring rolls!
(Everyone else in the parking lot felt lousy, too, cuz just about everyone had tried at least ONE of Kenny’s free hot dogs.)
(And the dogs, of course, had eaten as many as they could snatch. Which meant that quite a few of them were in pretty bad shape.)
I was hoping that we could survive this episode without a trip to the veterinarian. (My guys are very pro-science, but that doesn’t include trips to the vet. And especially: trips to the vet for themselves. Wellness checks, even, are fine, but best conducted via the internet. As far as they’re concerned, there are NO good grounds for actually visiting a vet’s office.)
But first, I had to get County Health off our backs.
So I did what I usually (almost always do):
I sauntered over to their largest County Health vehicle, assuming that that van would be HQ for Field Operations, and struck up a “casual” conversation with one of the paramedics. Who pointed me toward Dr. Schmidt, who was across the parking lot near the free car wash supervising the nurses who were taking people’s temperatures… and who “casually” mentioned that Dr. Schmidt owned a pair of nasty-to-everyone-not-named-Doctor-Schmidt bulldogs and also LOVED barbecue…
You can see where this is going, I think.
So I real-quick found Butch, who didn’t seem to be suffering too much—at least compared to Maggie and Howie and Fifi—filled him in on “the situation,” and had him scamper over to the Tour Bus and grab a copy of his cookbook. You know: “Barbeque for Bulldogs.” One-time Amazon “Cookbook of the Year,” best-seller on 3 continents and a number of off-shore islands, and definitely the one book I’d consult if I were looking for the ultimate WHITE barbecue sauce.
November 9, 2020
But I’d no sooner walked in the front door of the dry-cleaning establishment—after having gotten a dirty look from the proprietor and been told by him that his rest rooms were NOT available to all the riff-raff that was hanging out next-door getting free car washes, free oil changes, and free hot dogs—than I suddenly started feeling REALLY ILL.
REALLY ILL.
As in: about to lose my lunch.
And then it dawned on me:
I HADN’T EATEN ANY OF SUZIE’S SPRING ROLLS!
I felt terrible (and about to make a big mess right there inside the door of the not-so-friendly dry-cleaning shop), but I could’ve felt worse.
And all because I HADN’T EATEN ANY OF SUZIE’S SPRING ROLLS!
Because THAT meant that:
Suzie’s spring rolls weren’t what was making everybody sick!
Something else was. Obviously.
By that point, I’d lurched out the door of the dry cleaner’s and was hunched over, kneeling on one knee, in the parking lot.
I saw Terry Scraps walking up to me, a concerned look on his face. So I asked him, “Are you feeling okay?”
And he shrugged. Smiled (as he usually does, even when things aren’t going so great), and said, “Sure. Couldn’t feel better… YOU don’t look so hot, but I feel fine.”
I summoned up a bit more energy, and asked, “Did you have any of Suzie’s spring rolls?”
And he nodded and said, “I’ll cop to 3.” He looked around, then dropped his voice. “Okay. Maybe 5 or 6. But no more than 6.”
“And you don’t feel at all queasy?”
Terry snorted. “Me? Feel queasy? Me? Remember? I’m the guy who grew up as a short-order chef in a railroad diner? I can digest week-old armadillo.”
He glanced over (sympathetically) at all the people in the parking lot who looked to be in various stages of food poisoning (like I was) and said, “I warned them about those hot dogs.”
“You think that was it?” I asked, half-panting.
He shook his head and chuckled. “I can smell a dicey dog a mile off.” He paused, then dropped his voice. “Not that I never served one, myself. The trick is to heat it 10 ways to Sunday. Boil it, then burn it, then boil it again. Then you slather it with onions and refried beans and maybe a little guacamole, and you don’t have to worry about… But you do it this way—“ he gestured towards the free hot dog table—“you just throw ‘em on a steam plate for 5 minutes and say a prayer they’re okay? Heck, that’d half-kill a coyote.”
Well, he convinced ME. Now all I had to do was find that guy from County Health. Maybe we could all come out of this all right.
Except, of course, for Kenny. They were HIS hot dogs.
But I’d no sooner walked in the front door of the dry-cleaning establishment—after having gotten a dirty look from the proprietor and been told by him that his rest rooms were NOT available to all the riff-raff that was hanging out next-door getting free car washes, free oil changes, and free hot dogs—than I suddenly started feeling REALLY ILL.
REALLY ILL.
As in: about to lose my lunch.
And then it dawned on me:
I HADN’T EATEN ANY OF SUZIE’S SPRING ROLLS!
I felt terrible (and about to make a big mess right there inside the door of the not-so-friendly dry-cleaning shop), but I could’ve felt worse.
And all because I HADN’T EATEN ANY OF SUZIE’S SPRING ROLLS!
Because THAT meant that:
Suzie’s spring rolls weren’t what was making everybody sick!
Something else was. Obviously.
By that point, I’d lurched out the door of the dry cleaner’s and was hunched over, kneeling on one knee, in the parking lot.
I saw Terry Scraps walking up to me, a concerned look on his face. So I asked him, “Are you feeling okay?”
And he shrugged. Smiled (as he usually does, even when things aren’t going so great), and said, “Sure. Couldn’t feel better… YOU don’t look so hot, but I feel fine.”
I summoned up a bit more energy, and asked, “Did you have any of Suzie’s spring rolls?”
And he nodded and said, “I’ll cop to 3.” He looked around, then dropped his voice. “Okay. Maybe 5 or 6. But no more than 6.”
“And you don’t feel at all queasy?”
Terry snorted. “Me? Feel queasy? Me? Remember? I’m the guy who grew up as a short-order chef in a railroad diner? I can digest week-old armadillo.”
He glanced over (sympathetically) at all the people in the parking lot who looked to be in various stages of food poisoning (like I was) and said, “I warned them about those hot dogs.”
“You think that was it?” I asked, half-panting.
He shook his head and chuckled. “I can smell a dicey dog a mile off.” He paused, then dropped his voice. “Not that I never served one, myself. The trick is to heat it 10 ways to Sunday. Boil it, then burn it, then boil it again. Then you slather it with onions and refried beans and maybe a little guacamole, and you don’t have to worry about… But you do it this way—“ he gestured towards the free hot dog table—“you just throw ‘em on a steam plate for 5 minutes and say a prayer they’re okay? Heck, that’d half-kill a coyote.”
Well, he convinced ME. Now all I had to do was find that guy from County Health. Maybe we could all come out of this all right.
Except, of course, for Kenny. They were HIS hot dogs.
November 7, 2020
What maybe surprised me most was how quick the officials from the county health department to arrive en scene.
What had started out as a semi-mob scene, with a couple hundred people and dogs bent over, moaning and retching in every corner of the parking lot, was quickly calmed and organized by a paramedic who jumped up onto Suzie’s makeshift “stage” with a bullhorn and explained to us all what he and his helpers were going to do for us all.
So he had us all-- humans AND dogs-- form up into several lines, starting over at the car-wash area, where some other paramedics took our temperatures, checked our eyes and our throats, and asked each of us to describe our symptoms.
It was all very orderly. I think that person who was the most upset was Kenny. I mean, it was HIS Grand Opening, even if it’d been SUZIE’S cooking demonstration. (And where had she gotten herself off to? I didn’t see her anywhere.)
A county sheriff’s Chevy Tahoe zoomed into the parking lot, and I half-dreaded the prospect of “the fuzz” jumping to conclusions. Such as:
Or in this particular case: a county-wide dog hunt.
(Where the heck had she gone? I’d just seen her a few minutes earlier. What was I gonna tell the cops? That she had another engagement? That wasn’t gonna fly. Sh--!)
Fortunately most everybody stopped retching. Kenny started handing out free bottles of water. (And he still had all that ice cream, but nobody seemed interested…
… well, a few kids still seemed interested. In fact, they were helping themselves, and making quite a mess in the process, and I’m sure County Health wouldn’t have been very happy about a bunch of scruffy kids serving themselves ice-cream cones—if they’d noticed.
Which they didn’t, apparently.
Because they were all too busy—the County Health people and the sheriff’s people—looking for ME.
That’s right: ME.
Cuz I was the ringleader of the “Real Dogs Cook!” tour. Right? The dope who was responsible for a dog doing a cooking demonstration in a Kenny’s Quick Lube parking lot. The dope who okay’d handing out dozens of cooked-on-the-spot spring rolls…
… to an “unsuspecting” public.
Where, they wanted to know—just for starters-- was our permit?
That’s right. Our permit.
Then they’d want to know: Precisely what sanitary procedures and precautions had we been following…
… if I’d stuck around.
But, taking a cue from Suzie, I decided that NOW—RIGHT NOW—was a good time to…
… take a powder.
As in: scram.
But I needed to be nonchalant about it.
So I just stuck my hands on my pants’ pockets, lowered my head, and casually—very casually—moseyed over to the dry-cleaning joint next door.
I could always claim that I was simply checking to see if my laundry was done.
Simply checking.
They’d buy that, right? The cops?
Who wouldn’t believe that? I have an innocent face.
What maybe surprised me most was how quick the officials from the county health department to arrive en scene.
What had started out as a semi-mob scene, with a couple hundred people and dogs bent over, moaning and retching in every corner of the parking lot, was quickly calmed and organized by a paramedic who jumped up onto Suzie’s makeshift “stage” with a bullhorn and explained to us all what he and his helpers were going to do for us all.
So he had us all-- humans AND dogs-- form up into several lines, starting over at the car-wash area, where some other paramedics took our temperatures, checked our eyes and our throats, and asked each of us to describe our symptoms.
It was all very orderly. I think that person who was the most upset was Kenny. I mean, it was HIS Grand Opening, even if it’d been SUZIE’S cooking demonstration. (And where had she gotten herself off to? I didn’t see her anywhere.)
A county sheriff’s Chevy Tahoe zoomed into the parking lot, and I half-dreaded the prospect of “the fuzz” jumping to conclusions. Such as:
- Suzie’d been doing her cooking demo.
- During which she handed out DOZENS of her spring rolls.
- And then everybody started getting sick.
- As in: REALLY SICK.
- Beyond just “nauseous.”
- If you get my drift.
- And then Suzie disappeared.
Or in this particular case: a county-wide dog hunt.
(Where the heck had she gone? I’d just seen her a few minutes earlier. What was I gonna tell the cops? That she had another engagement? That wasn’t gonna fly. Sh--!)
Fortunately most everybody stopped retching. Kenny started handing out free bottles of water. (And he still had all that ice cream, but nobody seemed interested…
… well, a few kids still seemed interested. In fact, they were helping themselves, and making quite a mess in the process, and I’m sure County Health wouldn’t have been very happy about a bunch of scruffy kids serving themselves ice-cream cones—if they’d noticed.
Which they didn’t, apparently.
Because they were all too busy—the County Health people and the sheriff’s people—looking for ME.
That’s right: ME.
Cuz I was the ringleader of the “Real Dogs Cook!” tour. Right? The dope who was responsible for a dog doing a cooking demonstration in a Kenny’s Quick Lube parking lot. The dope who okay’d handing out dozens of cooked-on-the-spot spring rolls…
… to an “unsuspecting” public.
Where, they wanted to know—just for starters-- was our permit?
That’s right. Our permit.
Then they’d want to know: Precisely what sanitary procedures and precautions had we been following…
- When we ordered the food ingredients and utensils?
- When we first set up shop on Kenny’s makeshift “stage?”
- When Suzie knew that her cooking apparatus was clean and sufficiently hot to through-cook everything?
- When we presented Suzie’s “product” to the innocent (and trusting) attendees?
… if I’d stuck around.
But, taking a cue from Suzie, I decided that NOW—RIGHT NOW—was a good time to…
… take a powder.
As in: scram.
But I needed to be nonchalant about it.
So I just stuck my hands on my pants’ pockets, lowered my head, and casually—very casually—moseyed over to the dry-cleaning joint next door.
I could always claim that I was simply checking to see if my laundry was done.
Simply checking.
They’d buy that, right? The cops?
Who wouldn’t believe that? I have an innocent face.
November 5, 2020
So, yeah…
Suzie’s cooking demonstration (in the parking lot of the new Kenny’s Quick Lube) was a smash hit…
… AND THEN EVERYBODY GOT SICK.
AMAZINGLY SICK.
I’m pretty sure that I’ve never seen THAT MANY PEOPLE (AND DOGS) (ESPECIALLY DOGS) get that sick all at once.
Sure, I’ve had the occasional “bad meal” at a restaurant. You know, the ones where all the folks you were with has some version of “the runs” the next day.
And in the small town I live in, we used to have a restaurant that everybody would always blame, if you wanted to call in sick for work the next day. (And the excuse was always the same. It was a town-wide convention—sorta like code. You could call in to work and simply say, “I can’t make it in today. I had the scallops at The Steak Pit last night.” And whoever you were talking to would groan and reply, “Oh, yeah. That’s happened to me, too. Just stay home. Take it easy. See you tomorrow.” Left unsaid was: “Or maybe I’ll see you up on the mountain later. Gotcha covered.”)
Anyway…
EVERYBODY GOT SICK. Within 30 minutes or so.
Suzie’d no sooner wrapped up her cooking demo—with zero spring rolls left over—when individuals and then small groups of folks in the parking lot started making these really loud moaning sounds. And then, almost instantly, it was EVERYBODY.
I don’t want to get too graphic, here, so just use your imagination.
Picture a few hundred people milling around a parking lot on a warm sunny Saturday, taking in the free car washes and free oil changes, and there’s Suzie up on a makeshift “stage” giving one of her justly-famous “one wok” cooking demonstrations, and just after she’s wrapped up her show, people all over the parking lot start feeling…
… extremely ill.
Including yours truly.
But what really made me feel ill—obviously—was what was gonna happen next.
I mean. Think of the liability issues! And the guilt!
Well, forget the guilt. Simply the liability issues…
… and think of what the guys at Corporate were gonna think…
… assuming they found out.
Heck, they find out EVERYTHING. You can’t hide ANYTHING from those guys.
You know: the suits. The bean-counters. The MBA’s with no souls, padding out their resumes before they abandon the company for their next well-paying gig.
Yeah. Assuming nobody actually got HOSPITALIZED from whatever bad food we’d all ingested, the biggest worry (for us) would be the suits.
Even when I felt fine, thinking of them made me feel ill.
And now, I really DID feel ill.
As—obviously—did almost everybody else in the parking lot.
Damn.
What had we wrought?
So, yeah…
Suzie’s cooking demonstration (in the parking lot of the new Kenny’s Quick Lube) was a smash hit…
… AND THEN EVERYBODY GOT SICK.
AMAZINGLY SICK.
I’m pretty sure that I’ve never seen THAT MANY PEOPLE (AND DOGS) (ESPECIALLY DOGS) get that sick all at once.
Sure, I’ve had the occasional “bad meal” at a restaurant. You know, the ones where all the folks you were with has some version of “the runs” the next day.
And in the small town I live in, we used to have a restaurant that everybody would always blame, if you wanted to call in sick for work the next day. (And the excuse was always the same. It was a town-wide convention—sorta like code. You could call in to work and simply say, “I can’t make it in today. I had the scallops at The Steak Pit last night.” And whoever you were talking to would groan and reply, “Oh, yeah. That’s happened to me, too. Just stay home. Take it easy. See you tomorrow.” Left unsaid was: “Or maybe I’ll see you up on the mountain later. Gotcha covered.”)
Anyway…
EVERYBODY GOT SICK. Within 30 minutes or so.
Suzie’d no sooner wrapped up her cooking demo—with zero spring rolls left over—when individuals and then small groups of folks in the parking lot started making these really loud moaning sounds. And then, almost instantly, it was EVERYBODY.
I don’t want to get too graphic, here, so just use your imagination.
Picture a few hundred people milling around a parking lot on a warm sunny Saturday, taking in the free car washes and free oil changes, and there’s Suzie up on a makeshift “stage” giving one of her justly-famous “one wok” cooking demonstrations, and just after she’s wrapped up her show, people all over the parking lot start feeling…
… extremely ill.
Including yours truly.
But what really made me feel ill—obviously—was what was gonna happen next.
I mean. Think of the liability issues! And the guilt!
Well, forget the guilt. Simply the liability issues…
… and think of what the guys at Corporate were gonna think…
… assuming they found out.
Heck, they find out EVERYTHING. You can’t hide ANYTHING from those guys.
You know: the suits. The bean-counters. The MBA’s with no souls, padding out their resumes before they abandon the company for their next well-paying gig.
Yeah. Assuming nobody actually got HOSPITALIZED from whatever bad food we’d all ingested, the biggest worry (for us) would be the suits.
Even when I felt fine, thinking of them made me feel ill.
And now, I really DID feel ill.
As—obviously—did almost everybody else in the parking lot.
Damn.
What had we wrought?
November 4, 2020
One thing that I didn’t know, but which came to light later and which was actually REALLY GOOD THAT SUZIE’D THOUGHT OF IT, was that she had not only substituted generic bologna and fish sticks for the shrimp and the lean boneless pork that her grandmother’s recipe called for (which is the way it’s printed in the book: “Kung Pao for Pekingese”), but because Suzie knew that she was doing a cooking demo for a crowd of dogs AND humans, she’d also decided to leave out the liver (or lamb) dog chow that the original recipe calls for. She simply added more bologna and fish sticks to the recipe, to make up for the lack of dog chow.
(If you backed up a few installments and checked the recipe, it called for 1 scoop each: shrimp, pork, and dog chow. So Suzie just doubled-up on the bologna and fish sticks and left the dog chow out completely.)
As I said, I wasn’t aware that she’d decided to eliminate the dog chow, but in light of what happened, it was a great idea on her part.
Because…
… Well, let me just say that Suzie’s cooking demo went off really well. The crowd loved it, and there certainly weren’t any leftovers.
In fact, it seemed like even the serving trays got LICKED CLEAN. Spotlessly clean.
The bowls with the 2 dipping sauces vanished altogether. I know they got passed around, because I tried some of the sweet-and-sour sauce on one of Kenny’s free hot dogs. But somewhere in all the tumult, the dipping sauce bowls simply went missing.
Not that we needed the bowls, but I guess that they might’ve come in handy, for evidence.
That’s right. That’s what I said: “For evidence.”
Not that, in the end, we actually needed more “evidence.” But at least in the short-term, it might’ve been helpful if a few of the bowls had been found.
So they could’ve been tested.
One thing that I didn’t know, but which came to light later and which was actually REALLY GOOD THAT SUZIE’D THOUGHT OF IT, was that she had not only substituted generic bologna and fish sticks for the shrimp and the lean boneless pork that her grandmother’s recipe called for (which is the way it’s printed in the book: “Kung Pao for Pekingese”), but because Suzie knew that she was doing a cooking demo for a crowd of dogs AND humans, she’d also decided to leave out the liver (or lamb) dog chow that the original recipe calls for. She simply added more bologna and fish sticks to the recipe, to make up for the lack of dog chow.
(If you backed up a few installments and checked the recipe, it called for 1 scoop each: shrimp, pork, and dog chow. So Suzie just doubled-up on the bologna and fish sticks and left the dog chow out completely.)
As I said, I wasn’t aware that she’d decided to eliminate the dog chow, but in light of what happened, it was a great idea on her part.
Because…
… Well, let me just say that Suzie’s cooking demo went off really well. The crowd loved it, and there certainly weren’t any leftovers.
In fact, it seemed like even the serving trays got LICKED CLEAN. Spotlessly clean.
The bowls with the 2 dipping sauces vanished altogether. I know they got passed around, because I tried some of the sweet-and-sour sauce on one of Kenny’s free hot dogs. But somewhere in all the tumult, the dipping sauce bowls simply went missing.
Not that we needed the bowls, but I guess that they might’ve come in handy, for evidence.
That’s right. That’s what I said: “For evidence.”
Not that, in the end, we actually needed more “evidence.” But at least in the short-term, it might’ve been helpful if a few of the bowls had been found.
So they could’ve been tested.
November 2, 2020
Meow Mix would definitely not have been a crowd-pleaser.
The audience was 95% children and dogs, with a sprinkling of adults and a few cats half-hiding around the fringes of the parking lot. Mostly over by the dumpsters next to the convenience store.
But it was generic bologna and fish sticks that she used, to substitute for the understandably-more-expensive shrimp and boneless pork. And nobody cared. I mean, Suzie is a great chef, and great chefs can make ALMOST ANY COMBINATION OF INGREDIENTS far-more-than-simply-palatable.
So Suzie’s modified spring rolls were a big hit. Which was no surprise.
I have to admit: I didn’t have any, myself. As I wrote earlier, I DID try some of her sweet-and-sour sauce on one of the free hot dogs (and buns). And I can attest: It was an improvement over straight mustard or ketchup or pickle relish. (Heck, slices of half an onion would’ve been an improvement. Or tequila. Anything to kill the taste would’ve helped.)
So, in light of what transpired later, it’s good to know that—at the time—nobody seemed to object to the bologna and fish sticks, or any of the other ingredients, either. Nobody complained about any of Suzie’s offerings tasting “funny” or somehow “slightly off.” And I can personally testify that EVERY SINGLE SPRING ROLL got properly impaled onto a CLEAN, VIRGIN popsicle stick (or vice versa)…
… because I did it myself.
So… Nobody complained about the any of Suzie’s spring rolls tasting wrong, and nobody complained about the dipping sauces. (Who would? They’re great.)
So what happened next/later was IN NO WAY Suzie’s fault. I could swear to that in court.
If I had to.
Which I didn’t.
Thank god.
Nobody got all THAT sick.
Not that I heard of, anyway.
But with all the challenges I face running this Tour, the last thing I needed was for something REALLY BAD to happen.
Cuz you know how JUDGMENTAL some people can be.
Meow Mix would definitely not have been a crowd-pleaser.
The audience was 95% children and dogs, with a sprinkling of adults and a few cats half-hiding around the fringes of the parking lot. Mostly over by the dumpsters next to the convenience store.
But it was generic bologna and fish sticks that she used, to substitute for the understandably-more-expensive shrimp and boneless pork. And nobody cared. I mean, Suzie is a great chef, and great chefs can make ALMOST ANY COMBINATION OF INGREDIENTS far-more-than-simply-palatable.
So Suzie’s modified spring rolls were a big hit. Which was no surprise.
I have to admit: I didn’t have any, myself. As I wrote earlier, I DID try some of her sweet-and-sour sauce on one of the free hot dogs (and buns). And I can attest: It was an improvement over straight mustard or ketchup or pickle relish. (Heck, slices of half an onion would’ve been an improvement. Or tequila. Anything to kill the taste would’ve helped.)
So, in light of what transpired later, it’s good to know that—at the time—nobody seemed to object to the bologna and fish sticks, or any of the other ingredients, either. Nobody complained about any of Suzie’s offerings tasting “funny” or somehow “slightly off.” And I can personally testify that EVERY SINGLE SPRING ROLL got properly impaled onto a CLEAN, VIRGIN popsicle stick (or vice versa)…
… because I did it myself.
So… Nobody complained about the any of Suzie’s spring rolls tasting wrong, and nobody complained about the dipping sauces. (Who would? They’re great.)
So what happened next/later was IN NO WAY Suzie’s fault. I could swear to that in court.
If I had to.
Which I didn’t.
Thank god.
Nobody got all THAT sick.
Not that I heard of, anyway.
But with all the challenges I face running this Tour, the last thing I needed was for something REALLY BAD to happen.
Cuz you know how JUDGMENTAL some people can be.
October 30, 2020
So Suzie made a great impression on everyone. (I could say that “any of the guys would’ve wowed them.” But that would be half-denigrating Suzie’s stellar performance.)
And as I said, my only real contribution to “the show” was jamming the popsicle sticks on the spring rolls after she’d finished frying them… and letting them cool for a couple of minutes.
That’s one tip that she shared with the crowd: It’s always best to let them cool a bit. They actually taste BETTER at room temperature. (But not refrigerated. And not taken-out-of-the-fridge-and-microwaved, either. If you’ve gotta stow them in the fridge overnight, pull them out and let them warm up all by themselves on the kitchen counter.) (And, personally, I wouldn’t microwave the dipping sauces, either. But maybe that’s just me.)
So anyway, I was busy enough jamming the popsicle sticks on the finished spring rolls, that I never noticed that Suzie’d substituted a couple of ingredients from the recipe we printed here just a few days ago. (The same recipe that’s in her book, “Kung Pao for Pekingese. http://www.amazon.com/Kung-Pao-Pekingese-Gourmet-Cookbooks/dp/0692381473.)
To refresh your (and my) memory:
The three main ingredients for Suzie’s (grandmother’s) spring-roll recipe are:
… generic bologna and fish sticks.
Hey, she’s the chef. What can I say?
At least she didn’t substitute in Meow Mix.
So Suzie made a great impression on everyone. (I could say that “any of the guys would’ve wowed them.” But that would be half-denigrating Suzie’s stellar performance.)
And as I said, my only real contribution to “the show” was jamming the popsicle sticks on the spring rolls after she’d finished frying them… and letting them cool for a couple of minutes.
That’s one tip that she shared with the crowd: It’s always best to let them cool a bit. They actually taste BETTER at room temperature. (But not refrigerated. And not taken-out-of-the-fridge-and-microwaved, either. If you’ve gotta stow them in the fridge overnight, pull them out and let them warm up all by themselves on the kitchen counter.) (And, personally, I wouldn’t microwave the dipping sauces, either. But maybe that’s just me.)
So anyway, I was busy enough jamming the popsicle sticks on the finished spring rolls, that I never noticed that Suzie’d substituted a couple of ingredients from the recipe we printed here just a few days ago. (The same recipe that’s in her book, “Kung Pao for Pekingese. http://www.amazon.com/Kung-Pao-Pekingese-Gourmet-Cookbooks/dp/0692381473.)
To refresh your (and my) memory:
The three main ingredients for Suzie’s (grandmother’s) spring-roll recipe are:
- shrimp – shelled, deveined, julienned
- lean boneless pork, shredded
- liver (or lamb) dog chow, chopped
… generic bologna and fish sticks.
Hey, she’s the chef. What can I say?
At least she didn’t substitute in Meow Mix.
October 29, 2020
But that was all in the future.
At that point, all I was concerned about was having Suzie make a good impression. (Well, mostly…)
If you remember, the whole idea behind doing a cooking demonstration at the Grand Opening of the new Kenny’s Quick Lube wasn’t to promote US. It was to generate interest in somebody (probably plural) adopting the 3 sheepdog puppies. (Whom we later learned went by the names Sherman, Tyrone, and Claire.)
We subsequently decided that we ABSOLUTELY COULDN’T give them up for adoption, but the original idea had been just that: Do this cooking demo, and once we’d lulled the crowd into feeling really mellow, beg somebody (probably plural) to take these cute young puppies off of our hands.
So Suzie’s cooking demo actually had an ulterior motive.
But that was all in the past, now, so all I had to do at that point was make myself available for Suzie, if she needed help.
So my job wound up being:
… Jamming the fried, finished spring rolls onto the popsicle sticks.
That’s right. That was my job.
So in case you’ve ever thought of me as some high-flying super-executive, probably lolling around my penthouse corner office with my feet up on my (highly polished mahogany) desk, giving dictation to a super-pretty secretary and double-checking with her about the availability of the corporate jet for my next jaunt to Barbados (or maybe the Caymans, if I have a lot of paper money and/or gold bars that needs hiding)…
… in case THAT’S your image of me…
… well then, you’d be surprised to discover that “jamming popsicle sticks into newly-created spring rolls is, in reality, far far closer to my everyday range of activities than “jetting off to Barbados” is ever likely to be.
And that’s okay. I enjoy my work. (Shouldn’t we all?)
And, in light of what happened directly subsequent to Suzie’s cooking demo, I should also point out that I like to do my job RESPONSIBLY.
Meaning: I don’t skip steps. I don’t cut corners…
… and when I’m involved with food prep, food presentation, and food purveying…
… one step THAT I NEVER SKIP…
… one step THAT I WOULD NEVER EVEN THINK OF SKIPPING…
… is…
… WASHING MY HANDS.
NEVER. NEVER EVER.
May lightning strike me dead.
May the heavens fall directly onto my head.
May the shaft on my driver snap on the very first tee.
May the moonshine I brewed up leave me deaf and blind.
In other words, I would never engage in a cooking demo without having first washed my hands thoroughly.
Repeat: thoroughly.
But that was all in the future.
At that point, all I was concerned about was having Suzie make a good impression. (Well, mostly…)
If you remember, the whole idea behind doing a cooking demonstration at the Grand Opening of the new Kenny’s Quick Lube wasn’t to promote US. It was to generate interest in somebody (probably plural) adopting the 3 sheepdog puppies. (Whom we later learned went by the names Sherman, Tyrone, and Claire.)
We subsequently decided that we ABSOLUTELY COULDN’T give them up for adoption, but the original idea had been just that: Do this cooking demo, and once we’d lulled the crowd into feeling really mellow, beg somebody (probably plural) to take these cute young puppies off of our hands.
So Suzie’s cooking demo actually had an ulterior motive.
But that was all in the past, now, so all I had to do at that point was make myself available for Suzie, if she needed help.
So my job wound up being:
… Jamming the fried, finished spring rolls onto the popsicle sticks.
That’s right. That was my job.
So in case you’ve ever thought of me as some high-flying super-executive, probably lolling around my penthouse corner office with my feet up on my (highly polished mahogany) desk, giving dictation to a super-pretty secretary and double-checking with her about the availability of the corporate jet for my next jaunt to Barbados (or maybe the Caymans, if I have a lot of paper money and/or gold bars that needs hiding)…
… in case THAT’S your image of me…
… well then, you’d be surprised to discover that “jamming popsicle sticks into newly-created spring rolls is, in reality, far far closer to my everyday range of activities than “jetting off to Barbados” is ever likely to be.
And that’s okay. I enjoy my work. (Shouldn’t we all?)
And, in light of what happened directly subsequent to Suzie’s cooking demo, I should also point out that I like to do my job RESPONSIBLY.
Meaning: I don’t skip steps. I don’t cut corners…
… and when I’m involved with food prep, food presentation, and food purveying…
… one step THAT I NEVER SKIP…
… one step THAT I WOULD NEVER EVEN THINK OF SKIPPING…
… is…
… WASHING MY HANDS.
NEVER. NEVER EVER.
May lightning strike me dead.
May the heavens fall directly onto my head.
May the shaft on my driver snap on the very first tee.
May the moonshine I brewed up leave me deaf and blind.
In other words, I would never engage in a cooking demo without having first washed my hands thoroughly.
Repeat: thoroughly.
October 28, 2020
So Suzie presented those two recipes (slightly altered, which I’ll get into in a bit) to an adoring crowd at the Grand Opening of the new Kenny’s Quick Lube. Her luscious, mouth-watering spring rolls and also the two dipping sauces. All cooked up in her single “big wok,” the one she’s dragged all over the world on her seemingly endless “voyages of discovery.”
And finally, I was enlightened as to the purpose of the 1,000 popsicle sticks she’d ordered from the grocery store, when she and Butch and I had driven over there to order everything she was gonna need for her demo.
As it turned out, Suzie had decided that, as a public-health precaution, she’d need to impale every single spring roll she fried up with a popsicle stick—before they were handed out to the crowd—and so, presumably, before they’d each be dunked into a bowl of either of the dipping sauces.
Always thinking ahead, that’s our Suzie! The last thing she wanted was for someone to get sick (or even suffer from a mildly upset stomach), all because some thoughtless festival-goer double-dipped.
I can see her point. With that many people—and we’re talking a couple hundred people, easy, by the time she’d gotten her stage show rolling—you’re bound to have SOMEBODY not pay proper attention to BASIC BUFFET LINE ETIQUETTE.
As in: scarfing down as much as you can get your paws on, pronto, with no regard for where those paws of yours have been for the last few hours.
Sure, we’re always reminding folks “to wash your paws,” but even in the solitary calm of one’s own kitchen, you can sometimes forget. So when you’re presented with freshly-fried Suzie Snow Peas Spring Rolls—and you’ve gotta grab with all your might, or you might get left totally foodless—it’s easy to see why consideration-for-our-fellow-food-fans can go all but forgotten.
Needless to say, the crush at the front of the crowd was maddening, as damn-near-everybody was lunging feverishly for one of the plates of free spring rolls that Suzie was cranking out. The scent of those freshly-fried delicacies was wafting all the way to the back of the crowd, and I’d started to worry that maybe somebody would actually get CRUSHED as the entire crowd seemed to surge towards the stage, like a slow-moving tidal wave.
Several of the onlookers, I guess, having failed to procure even a single spring roll, had decided to commandeer the bowls of dipping sauce, and content themselves with mixing those with the seemingly-endless supply of lousy hot dogs (and buns). (I have confess, I decided to try dunking the lousy free hot dog (and bun) I’d been holding-- while looking for a trash can to throw it into-- into a bowl of sweet-and-sour sauce that happened my way, and the combination was definitely an improvement!)
Anyway, CHAOS REIGNED. Through no fault of Suzie’s. Shewas doing a bang-up job, up there on stage, frying up literally DOZENS of tasty spring rolls…
… and anyway, I was going to explain to you about the popsicle sticks.
You see, Suzie’s idea had been to have the grocery STAMP the popsicle sticks with a “legend” on either side. To commemorate the occasion, so to speak.
So she had them print “KENNY’S QUICK LUBE” on one side of each popsicle stick, and “REAL DOGS COOK!” on the other side.
Pretty smart idea, huh? Of course, I didn’t know—at that point—who was supposed to be paying for this custom-printed promotional stunt.
Clearly, Suzie had the public-health consideration in mind, to start with. So using popsicle sticks to keep folks from double-dipping in the dipping sauces made sense. And then it probably seemed logical to add some advertising, while she was at it. My guys are always on the lookout for promotional gimmicks.
But, considering the extra cost of stamping 1,000 popsicle sticks, I’d have to suggest that Suzie’s other motivation was the thought that the popsicle sticks, once they’d served their culinary purpose, would continue to add value by way of becoming an after-the-event SOUVENIR.
Apparently, it had never occurred to Suzie that popsicle sticks aren’t generally viewed as valuable keepsakes….
… maybe they are…
… in some country we’ve never been to before.
They’re certainly not, in this country.
As evidenced by the 1,000 DISCARDED POPSICLE STICKS that we found, after everyone had left, littering the entire expanse of the Kenny’s Quick Lube parking lot.
So Suzie presented those two recipes (slightly altered, which I’ll get into in a bit) to an adoring crowd at the Grand Opening of the new Kenny’s Quick Lube. Her luscious, mouth-watering spring rolls and also the two dipping sauces. All cooked up in her single “big wok,” the one she’s dragged all over the world on her seemingly endless “voyages of discovery.”
And finally, I was enlightened as to the purpose of the 1,000 popsicle sticks she’d ordered from the grocery store, when she and Butch and I had driven over there to order everything she was gonna need for her demo.
As it turned out, Suzie had decided that, as a public-health precaution, she’d need to impale every single spring roll she fried up with a popsicle stick—before they were handed out to the crowd—and so, presumably, before they’d each be dunked into a bowl of either of the dipping sauces.
Always thinking ahead, that’s our Suzie! The last thing she wanted was for someone to get sick (or even suffer from a mildly upset stomach), all because some thoughtless festival-goer double-dipped.
I can see her point. With that many people—and we’re talking a couple hundred people, easy, by the time she’d gotten her stage show rolling—you’re bound to have SOMEBODY not pay proper attention to BASIC BUFFET LINE ETIQUETTE.
As in: scarfing down as much as you can get your paws on, pronto, with no regard for where those paws of yours have been for the last few hours.
Sure, we’re always reminding folks “to wash your paws,” but even in the solitary calm of one’s own kitchen, you can sometimes forget. So when you’re presented with freshly-fried Suzie Snow Peas Spring Rolls—and you’ve gotta grab with all your might, or you might get left totally foodless—it’s easy to see why consideration-for-our-fellow-food-fans can go all but forgotten.
Needless to say, the crush at the front of the crowd was maddening, as damn-near-everybody was lunging feverishly for one of the plates of free spring rolls that Suzie was cranking out. The scent of those freshly-fried delicacies was wafting all the way to the back of the crowd, and I’d started to worry that maybe somebody would actually get CRUSHED as the entire crowd seemed to surge towards the stage, like a slow-moving tidal wave.
Several of the onlookers, I guess, having failed to procure even a single spring roll, had decided to commandeer the bowls of dipping sauce, and content themselves with mixing those with the seemingly-endless supply of lousy hot dogs (and buns). (I have confess, I decided to try dunking the lousy free hot dog (and bun) I’d been holding-- while looking for a trash can to throw it into-- into a bowl of sweet-and-sour sauce that happened my way, and the combination was definitely an improvement!)
Anyway, CHAOS REIGNED. Through no fault of Suzie’s. Shewas doing a bang-up job, up there on stage, frying up literally DOZENS of tasty spring rolls…
… and anyway, I was going to explain to you about the popsicle sticks.
You see, Suzie’s idea had been to have the grocery STAMP the popsicle sticks with a “legend” on either side. To commemorate the occasion, so to speak.
So she had them print “KENNY’S QUICK LUBE” on one side of each popsicle stick, and “REAL DOGS COOK!” on the other side.
Pretty smart idea, huh? Of course, I didn’t know—at that point—who was supposed to be paying for this custom-printed promotional stunt.
Clearly, Suzie had the public-health consideration in mind, to start with. So using popsicle sticks to keep folks from double-dipping in the dipping sauces made sense. And then it probably seemed logical to add some advertising, while she was at it. My guys are always on the lookout for promotional gimmicks.
But, considering the extra cost of stamping 1,000 popsicle sticks, I’d have to suggest that Suzie’s other motivation was the thought that the popsicle sticks, once they’d served their culinary purpose, would continue to add value by way of becoming an after-the-event SOUVENIR.
Apparently, it had never occurred to Suzie that popsicle sticks aren’t generally viewed as valuable keepsakes….
… maybe they are…
… in some country we’ve never been to before.
They’re certainly not, in this country.
As evidenced by the 1,000 DISCARDED POPSICLE STICKS that we found, after everyone had left, littering the entire expanse of the Kenny’s Quick Lube parking lot.
October 27, 2020
And so, “without further ado,” here’s Suzie’s recipe for the two dipping sauces:
Mustard-Soy Sauce
1/2 scoop soy sauce
2 spoons honey
1 spoon rice vinegar
1/2 spoon chili sauce (without garlic!)
Sweet-and-Sour Sauce
1/2 scoop ketchup
2 spoons sugar
1 spoon rice vinegar, fresh lime juice
a splash soy sauce, Worcestershire sauce
Mix both of these recipes well with a clean bone. Serve with tea or beer (or both) and enjoy! Reminisce with your new friends about summers in the country in Guangzhou (or the Berkshires)! Maybe they’ll share a story about their Ah Paw!
You see what I was saying, in the last installment, about “even ketchup?” I bet you didn’t realize that ketchup could be the main ingredient in an oriental sweet-and-sour sauce!
(I recently heard something about how—long, long ago—ketchup was considered to be a “medicine.”) (And for those old enough to remember Ronald Reagan, you might recall how his Department of Education once tried to get ketchup listed as a “vegetable” for school-lunch menus. Yeah, that’s right. Right up there with broccoli and zucchini. Ketchup. A most-nutritional “vegetable.”)
And of course you remember: Suzie’s “Ah Paw” was her beloved grandmother.
(She probably didn’t look anything like this woman. This one’s Kim Novak.)
(And I don’t know about you, but I always got Kim Novak and Tuesday Weld mixed up.)
Anyway, try mixing up these two dipping sauces. If you’ve already eaten up all of the spring rolls you made last time, you can always use these dipping sauces with leftovers or cold cuts. I especially like using the sweet-and-sour sauce on leftover pork chops and turkey sandwiches.
But to each his own. Check out what’s in your refrigerator, and get creative!
And so, “without further ado,” here’s Suzie’s recipe for the two dipping sauces:
Mustard-Soy Sauce
1/2 scoop soy sauce
2 spoons honey
1 spoon rice vinegar
1/2 spoon chili sauce (without garlic!)
Sweet-and-Sour Sauce
1/2 scoop ketchup
2 spoons sugar
1 spoon rice vinegar, fresh lime juice
a splash soy sauce, Worcestershire sauce
Mix both of these recipes well with a clean bone. Serve with tea or beer (or both) and enjoy! Reminisce with your new friends about summers in the country in Guangzhou (or the Berkshires)! Maybe they’ll share a story about their Ah Paw!
You see what I was saying, in the last installment, about “even ketchup?” I bet you didn’t realize that ketchup could be the main ingredient in an oriental sweet-and-sour sauce!
(I recently heard something about how—long, long ago—ketchup was considered to be a “medicine.”) (And for those old enough to remember Ronald Reagan, you might recall how his Department of Education once tried to get ketchup listed as a “vegetable” for school-lunch menus. Yeah, that’s right. Right up there with broccoli and zucchini. Ketchup. A most-nutritional “vegetable.”)
And of course you remember: Suzie’s “Ah Paw” was her beloved grandmother.
(She probably didn’t look anything like this woman. This one’s Kim Novak.)
(And I don’t know about you, but I always got Kim Novak and Tuesday Weld mixed up.)
Anyway, try mixing up these two dipping sauces. If you’ve already eaten up all of the spring rolls you made last time, you can always use these dipping sauces with leftovers or cold cuts. I especially like using the sweet-and-sour sauce on leftover pork chops and turkey sandwiches.
But to each his own. Check out what’s in your refrigerator, and get creative!
October 23, 2020
Okay!
So…
… AS PR0MISED!
WITH NO FURTHER DELAY!
Here’s the official cookbook recipe—reproduced here VERBATIM, so there’s no mistakes or anything, no reason to wonder whether this is, in fact THE REAL DEAL…
So yeah, here’s the version you’d find in your very own copy of Suzie’s “Kung Pao for Pekingese.” ( Available any which way you can get yourself to a computer and punch up http://www.amazon.com/Kung-Pao-Pekingese-Gourmet-Cookbooks/dp/0692381473 … No problem, right? List price: $9.99, or less. $0.00 for Kindle Unlimited! How could you beat that?)
So the variant Suzie presented that lovely Saturday, at the Grand opening of the new Kenny’s Quick Lube outside of Richmond, Virginia, was slightly different. And we’ll get into just how-and-why it differed in a little bit…
… but first I figured I’d give you the ORIGINAL, the DEFINITIVE recipe, and you could try this out in your own kitchen—today, even!—and discover how really scrumptious these spring rolls are…
… before I get into…
… what happened that day, down in Richmond.
So, without further ado…
… here’s Suzie’s recipe (learned from her beloved grandmother) for:
LOGS GLIDING DOWN RIVER OF HAPPINESS
SPRING ROLLS WITH DIPPING SAUCES
So we begin with an easy appetizer I learned from my Ah Paw (my grandmother). It’s from the Sun Tak region in the south, where she was born. Be sparing when smearing egg onto the wrappers.
1 scoop shrimp - shelled, deveined, julienned
1 scoop lean boneless pork, shredded
1 scoop liver (or lamb) dog chow, chopped
1 bowl peanut oil
1 can mung bean sprouts, ends removed
1 large egg, beaten
salt, sugar, soy sauce
12 spring roll wrappers
Place shrimp and pork in separate bowls. For the shrimp, add a swipe of salt, a swipe of sugar, and a splash of soy sauce. For the pork, use 2 swipes of salt, 2 splashes of soy sauce, and no sugar. Mix well. Take a short nap.
Heat wok to REALLY HOT.
Pour some peanut oil into the wok, wait for it to smoke. Then dump the shrimp mix in and stir a few times. Use chopsticks with two paws or a good flat stick. Don’t let the wok tip over!
Add shrimp mix and stir. Add dog chow and stir some more.
Add bean sprouts and cook til sprouts start to wilt or you get tired. Remove from heat, pour into a strainer, and drain.
On a cookie sheet, place the 12 spring roll wrappers. Using a flat stick or your paw, place equal amounts of filling on each wrapper. Don’t eat any of the filling!
Beat egg in a small bowl. Then, carefully dip a paw into the beaten egg and paint the edges of the first wrapper with it. (It’ll be sticky, like paste.) With both paws, roll and fold wrapper until it’s sealed and looks like a small smooth log (or store-bought bone). Repeat with the other 11 wrappers.
Wash paws.
Pour the rest of the peanut oil in the wok. Put 4 spring rolls into the wok and fry, turning until they’re golden brown. (Maybe 1 tummy-rub.) Remove and drain on paper towel. Repeat with the 8 remaining spring rolls. (I know you’re hungry, but you’ll have to wait!)
THE END – FOR NOW.
Simple, huh?
In my next installment, I’ll share with you the rest of the recipe: the 2 dipping sauces that Suzie recommended you try with these delicious concoctions.
If you can’t wait (and I’m sure that Suzie herself would understand!), try making these spring rolls right now, and use whatever sauces you can find in the fridge. Heck, even ketchup would probably work (though I’d suggest going easy on it. You don’t want to swamp the taste.)
Here’s a photo, to get you salivatin’. They look really good, don’t they?
Okay!
So…
… AS PR0MISED!
WITH NO FURTHER DELAY!
Here’s the official cookbook recipe—reproduced here VERBATIM, so there’s no mistakes or anything, no reason to wonder whether this is, in fact THE REAL DEAL…
So yeah, here’s the version you’d find in your very own copy of Suzie’s “Kung Pao for Pekingese.” ( Available any which way you can get yourself to a computer and punch up http://www.amazon.com/Kung-Pao-Pekingese-Gourmet-Cookbooks/dp/0692381473 … No problem, right? List price: $9.99, or less. $0.00 for Kindle Unlimited! How could you beat that?)
So the variant Suzie presented that lovely Saturday, at the Grand opening of the new Kenny’s Quick Lube outside of Richmond, Virginia, was slightly different. And we’ll get into just how-and-why it differed in a little bit…
… but first I figured I’d give you the ORIGINAL, the DEFINITIVE recipe, and you could try this out in your own kitchen—today, even!—and discover how really scrumptious these spring rolls are…
… before I get into…
… what happened that day, down in Richmond.
So, without further ado…
… here’s Suzie’s recipe (learned from her beloved grandmother) for:
LOGS GLIDING DOWN RIVER OF HAPPINESS
SPRING ROLLS WITH DIPPING SAUCES
So we begin with an easy appetizer I learned from my Ah Paw (my grandmother). It’s from the Sun Tak region in the south, where she was born. Be sparing when smearing egg onto the wrappers.
1 scoop shrimp - shelled, deveined, julienned
1 scoop lean boneless pork, shredded
1 scoop liver (or lamb) dog chow, chopped
1 bowl peanut oil
1 can mung bean sprouts, ends removed
1 large egg, beaten
salt, sugar, soy sauce
12 spring roll wrappers
Place shrimp and pork in separate bowls. For the shrimp, add a swipe of salt, a swipe of sugar, and a splash of soy sauce. For the pork, use 2 swipes of salt, 2 splashes of soy sauce, and no sugar. Mix well. Take a short nap.
Heat wok to REALLY HOT.
Pour some peanut oil into the wok, wait for it to smoke. Then dump the shrimp mix in and stir a few times. Use chopsticks with two paws or a good flat stick. Don’t let the wok tip over!
Add shrimp mix and stir. Add dog chow and stir some more.
Add bean sprouts and cook til sprouts start to wilt or you get tired. Remove from heat, pour into a strainer, and drain.
On a cookie sheet, place the 12 spring roll wrappers. Using a flat stick or your paw, place equal amounts of filling on each wrapper. Don’t eat any of the filling!
Beat egg in a small bowl. Then, carefully dip a paw into the beaten egg and paint the edges of the first wrapper with it. (It’ll be sticky, like paste.) With both paws, roll and fold wrapper until it’s sealed and looks like a small smooth log (or store-bought bone). Repeat with the other 11 wrappers.
Wash paws.
Pour the rest of the peanut oil in the wok. Put 4 spring rolls into the wok and fry, turning until they’re golden brown. (Maybe 1 tummy-rub.) Remove and drain on paper towel. Repeat with the 8 remaining spring rolls. (I know you’re hungry, but you’ll have to wait!)
THE END – FOR NOW.
Simple, huh?
In my next installment, I’ll share with you the rest of the recipe: the 2 dipping sauces that Suzie recommended you try with these delicious concoctions.
If you can’t wait (and I’m sure that Suzie herself would understand!), try making these spring rolls right now, and use whatever sauces you can find in the fridge. Heck, even ketchup would probably work (though I’d suggest going easy on it. You don’t want to swamp the taste.)
Here’s a photo, to get you salivatin’. They look really good, don’t they?
October 22, 2020
Food is food, but Suzie’s “food” was-- IS-- the best. Top shelf. First rate. Not-to-be-missed.
So whatever mischief my guys had been up to, sniffing around the parking lot of the brand-new Kenny’s Quick Lube, even if they’d been hot on the trail of a nasty cat, it couldn’t trump a free sampling of Suzie Snow Peas’ cooking.
So “the guys” were all there. Present and accounted-for.
As were a surprising number of folks who, mere moments before, had been lining up for a free car wash or a free oil change. (Obviously, anybody who’d been at the free-hot-dogs table had chosen the possibility of a free sample of Suzie’s soon-to-be-unveiled fare, instead.) The crowd around the “stage” was impressively large.
And Suzie knows how to play a crowd.
So, with her “big wok” fully heated-back-up, and the exploding popcorn opening act out of the way, she proceeded to introduce and demonstrate one of her old standbys: her grandmother’s famous spring rolls.
Or, as Suzie styles it, her “Logs Gliding Down River of Happiness.”
An old standby, yes. But terrific eating, too!
If you needed no other proof of just how good Suzie’s spring rolls are, all you had to do was look around and verify where our own traveling mates-- Fifi, Butch, Mona Lassie, and the others-- were standing. They’d squirmed their way right up to the front of the crowd, where they stood open-mouthed in anticipation of wolfing down as many of Suzie’s free samples as they sink their teeth into.
And these guys are professional chefs!
They’re not a bunch of half-starved vagabond mutts. They get 3 square meals a day. Plenty of protein and lots of fiber in their diets. PLUS treats. Never-ending treats.
(There’s always treats. I’ve never understood it. These guys are professional food preparers, but humans still think that they should be given treats every time they turn around… If it weren’t for the every-single-day vigorous training program that I hold them to—all of them!—they’d be so overweight that the Tour Bus would never be able to even BUDGE. I think the tires would go flat the instant we all got on.)
Anyway…
… Suzie launched into her justly-famous cooking demo, and the rest of us just sat back in admiration. She really is good. The way she moves “on stage,” the so-easy slicing and dicing, a sprinkle of this/a dash of that, the constant palaver (in a good sense). Reminiscing out loud about her childhood and her beloved grandmother (her Aw Pah) and fables her Aw Pah told her about various everyday herbs and spices. Sometimes Suzie will even throw in some double-entendre remarks about what startling results certain obscure ingredients and food combinations might provide young lovers… and not-so-young lovers.
It’s all in good fun, but it’s also mesmerizing for an audience. Suzie never misses a beat, and before you know it, she’s finished up her first few platters of spring rolls and offered them to a very appreciative crowd. (That’s usually the point where I have to restrain my guys from grabbing up EVERYTHING. Manners, as you know, are important in our line of work, but FOOD, especially SUZIE’S OFFERINGS, always manages to override civility, and I have to use physical force to make the other 7 dogs from HOGGING EVERYTHING, and… gasp!... SHARING!
As if SHARING was for losers, or something.
But then, you’ve never experienced Suzie’s cooking…
… so you couldn’t really understand.
But that’s okay.
In tomorrow’s installment, I’ll be sharing Suzie’s spring-roll recipe with you. Then you can make some of them yourself.
And then you’ll know.
Trust me.
Food is food, but Suzie’s “food” was-- IS-- the best. Top shelf. First rate. Not-to-be-missed.
So whatever mischief my guys had been up to, sniffing around the parking lot of the brand-new Kenny’s Quick Lube, even if they’d been hot on the trail of a nasty cat, it couldn’t trump a free sampling of Suzie Snow Peas’ cooking.
So “the guys” were all there. Present and accounted-for.
As were a surprising number of folks who, mere moments before, had been lining up for a free car wash or a free oil change. (Obviously, anybody who’d been at the free-hot-dogs table had chosen the possibility of a free sample of Suzie’s soon-to-be-unveiled fare, instead.) The crowd around the “stage” was impressively large.
And Suzie knows how to play a crowd.
So, with her “big wok” fully heated-back-up, and the exploding popcorn opening act out of the way, she proceeded to introduce and demonstrate one of her old standbys: her grandmother’s famous spring rolls.
Or, as Suzie styles it, her “Logs Gliding Down River of Happiness.”
An old standby, yes. But terrific eating, too!
If you needed no other proof of just how good Suzie’s spring rolls are, all you had to do was look around and verify where our own traveling mates-- Fifi, Butch, Mona Lassie, and the others-- were standing. They’d squirmed their way right up to the front of the crowd, where they stood open-mouthed in anticipation of wolfing down as many of Suzie’s free samples as they sink their teeth into.
And these guys are professional chefs!
They’re not a bunch of half-starved vagabond mutts. They get 3 square meals a day. Plenty of protein and lots of fiber in their diets. PLUS treats. Never-ending treats.
(There’s always treats. I’ve never understood it. These guys are professional food preparers, but humans still think that they should be given treats every time they turn around… If it weren’t for the every-single-day vigorous training program that I hold them to—all of them!—they’d be so overweight that the Tour Bus would never be able to even BUDGE. I think the tires would go flat the instant we all got on.)
Anyway…
… Suzie launched into her justly-famous cooking demo, and the rest of us just sat back in admiration. She really is good. The way she moves “on stage,” the so-easy slicing and dicing, a sprinkle of this/a dash of that, the constant palaver (in a good sense). Reminiscing out loud about her childhood and her beloved grandmother (her Aw Pah) and fables her Aw Pah told her about various everyday herbs and spices. Sometimes Suzie will even throw in some double-entendre remarks about what startling results certain obscure ingredients and food combinations might provide young lovers… and not-so-young lovers.
It’s all in good fun, but it’s also mesmerizing for an audience. Suzie never misses a beat, and before you know it, she’s finished up her first few platters of spring rolls and offered them to a very appreciative crowd. (That’s usually the point where I have to restrain my guys from grabbing up EVERYTHING. Manners, as you know, are important in our line of work, but FOOD, especially SUZIE’S OFFERINGS, always manages to override civility, and I have to use physical force to make the other 7 dogs from HOGGING EVERYTHING, and… gasp!... SHARING!
As if SHARING was for losers, or something.
But then, you’ve never experienced Suzie’s cooking…
… so you couldn’t really understand.
But that’s okay.
In tomorrow’s installment, I’ll be sharing Suzie’s spring-roll recipe with you. Then you can make some of them yourself.
And then you’ll know.
Trust me.
October 20, 2020
“Elvis” didn’t put up much of a fight. In fact, he took one look at Suzie glaring at him front the front of the “stage,” and he just bolted off the back steps and hurried over to where his car (a vintage Cadillac convertible, naturally) was parked, cranked it up (it sputtered a bit, but finally coughed to life) and zoomed out of the parking lot blaring “Viva Las Vegas” from its tape deck. (Or was it an 8-track tape player?... Heck, it was probably Sirius.)
“Viva Las Vegas” booming from a convertible, of course, reminded me of “The Big Lebowski.” I have a gray-and-black creep wig that I wear on March 6, “The Day of the Dude.” Most folks don’t get the joke, but that’s okay. Maybe it’d make more sense to them if I had a bowling shirt, baggy shorts, and plastic loafers to round out my ensemble. Then again, maybe not.
After Elvis skadoodled, I glanced down at the back of the “stage” and noticed that he’d dropped his cell phone. Which meant that he’d be returning. Something great to look forward to.
But then…
… it was back to the show!
Suzie’d wrapped up her comedy monologue, and launched into her standard pre-cooking demonstration “lecture.” She always mentions to the audience how she grew up under the tutelage of her grandmother, her “Ah Paw.” And how her Ah Paw introduced her to the wonders of Chinese cooking. And all the fabulous tastes and smells that can they encountered together, walking through the food markets of Gaungdong.
And if I’d heard this once, I’ve heard Suzie say it a thousand times:
“Remember: The Chinese word for ‘noodles’ is ‘FUN’!”
I’m not absolutely SICK of hearing that, but it comes off as a bit hackneyed after the first 3 or 400 times. Plus, I don’t even know if it’s Cantonese or Mandarin. OR if it’s even true.
But hey! The show must go on!
And go on it did!
Suzie was at her finest, and she’d really gotten the crowd behind her.
The shooting stars colored popcorn came flying out of her very-hot “big wok.” And the crowd always loves the popcorn kernels rocketing around. (Sometimes if she had access to an audio player, she’ll play “The Star Spangled Banner” or the “1812 Overture” along with the exploding popcorn… and REAL LOUD! REAL LOUD! That REALLY gets a crowd rocking!
Anyway, now she was rolling! Elvis had “left the building.” The crowd was all-ears and focused. The “big wok” was hot. And Suzie was ready to start cooking!
The excitement was overwhelming. The air virtually tingled with expectation….
… And the dogs had returned. From wherever they’d been. Being dogs, they could sense when “dinner” was about to be served.
And being dogs, they were not averse to it coming from an unusual or even an unsuspected source. Food is food.
“Elvis” didn’t put up much of a fight. In fact, he took one look at Suzie glaring at him front the front of the “stage,” and he just bolted off the back steps and hurried over to where his car (a vintage Cadillac convertible, naturally) was parked, cranked it up (it sputtered a bit, but finally coughed to life) and zoomed out of the parking lot blaring “Viva Las Vegas” from its tape deck. (Or was it an 8-track tape player?... Heck, it was probably Sirius.)
“Viva Las Vegas” booming from a convertible, of course, reminded me of “The Big Lebowski.” I have a gray-and-black creep wig that I wear on March 6, “The Day of the Dude.” Most folks don’t get the joke, but that’s okay. Maybe it’d make more sense to them if I had a bowling shirt, baggy shorts, and plastic loafers to round out my ensemble. Then again, maybe not.
After Elvis skadoodled, I glanced down at the back of the “stage” and noticed that he’d dropped his cell phone. Which meant that he’d be returning. Something great to look forward to.
But then…
… it was back to the show!
Suzie’d wrapped up her comedy monologue, and launched into her standard pre-cooking demonstration “lecture.” She always mentions to the audience how she grew up under the tutelage of her grandmother, her “Ah Paw.” And how her Ah Paw introduced her to the wonders of Chinese cooking. And all the fabulous tastes and smells that can they encountered together, walking through the food markets of Gaungdong.
And if I’d heard this once, I’ve heard Suzie say it a thousand times:
“Remember: The Chinese word for ‘noodles’ is ‘FUN’!”
I’m not absolutely SICK of hearing that, but it comes off as a bit hackneyed after the first 3 or 400 times. Plus, I don’t even know if it’s Cantonese or Mandarin. OR if it’s even true.
But hey! The show must go on!
And go on it did!
Suzie was at her finest, and she’d really gotten the crowd behind her.
The shooting stars colored popcorn came flying out of her very-hot “big wok.” And the crowd always loves the popcorn kernels rocketing around. (Sometimes if she had access to an audio player, she’ll play “The Star Spangled Banner” or the “1812 Overture” along with the exploding popcorn… and REAL LOUD! REAL LOUD! That REALLY gets a crowd rocking!
Anyway, now she was rolling! Elvis had “left the building.” The crowd was all-ears and focused. The “big wok” was hot. And Suzie was ready to start cooking!
The excitement was overwhelming. The air virtually tingled with expectation….
… And the dogs had returned. From wherever they’d been. Being dogs, they could sense when “dinner” was about to be served.
And being dogs, they were not averse to it coming from an unusual or even an unsuspected source. Food is food.
October 16, 2020
And indeed, once Suzie got through her stand-up-comic routine (which I understand she only did because she had to wait for her “big wok” to re-heat, after I’d accidentally disconnected it), it soon became apparent what she was going to prepare for her cooking demonstration, and also what she’d planned on needing the 1,000 popsicle sticks for.
I’d hopped up onto the back of the “stage,” so I could be available just in case Suzie needed me, and while I was standing up there doing nothing, I opened one of the packs of popsicle sticks.
Needless to say, I was surprised to see that these weren’t your average generic bulk popsicle sticks that anyone might buy at a large-ish grocery store. No. these were custom-printed popsicle sticks.
Which I guess I shouldn’t have completely surprised are available—if you know how to ask for them, and if you’re willing to pay (a lot of money) for them.
Well, Suzie had in fact (I guess) known that things like custom-printed popsicle sticks exist, and also that somebody (I hope not me!) would be willing to pay for them.
And who might that be? I wondered. She clearly hadn’t run the idea by ME. Would Allison’s cable-TV station pick up the tab? Or Kenny’s Quick Lube? (Somehow I couldn’t imagine Suzie herself paying for these things.)
But while I was wondering about this latest show-biz mystery, I got bumped aside by this guy whom I’d never set eyes on before, but he was clearly in the wrong place.
Somehow he’d gotten his hands on a second microphone, but if he thought that Suzie would share the stage with HIM (or anyone else, for that matter), he had another thing coming!
Of that I was sure.
And indeed, once Suzie got through her stand-up-comic routine (which I understand she only did because she had to wait for her “big wok” to re-heat, after I’d accidentally disconnected it), it soon became apparent what she was going to prepare for her cooking demonstration, and also what she’d planned on needing the 1,000 popsicle sticks for.
I’d hopped up onto the back of the “stage,” so I could be available just in case Suzie needed me, and while I was standing up there doing nothing, I opened one of the packs of popsicle sticks.
Needless to say, I was surprised to see that these weren’t your average generic bulk popsicle sticks that anyone might buy at a large-ish grocery store. No. these were custom-printed popsicle sticks.
Which I guess I shouldn’t have completely surprised are available—if you know how to ask for them, and if you’re willing to pay (a lot of money) for them.
Well, Suzie had in fact (I guess) known that things like custom-printed popsicle sticks exist, and also that somebody (I hope not me!) would be willing to pay for them.
And who might that be? I wondered. She clearly hadn’t run the idea by ME. Would Allison’s cable-TV station pick up the tab? Or Kenny’s Quick Lube? (Somehow I couldn’t imagine Suzie herself paying for these things.)
But while I was wondering about this latest show-biz mystery, I got bumped aside by this guy whom I’d never set eyes on before, but he was clearly in the wrong place.
Somehow he’d gotten his hands on a second microphone, but if he thought that Suzie would share the stage with HIM (or anyone else, for that matter), he had another thing coming!
Of that I was sure.
October 14, 2020
Now I do have to back up a bit, just to refresh your memory.
If you’ve been reading this column faithfully (which I assume you have), you’ll recall that just the before, Suzie and Butch and I drove to a nearby grocery store (recommended by Allison) to order up sll the stuff Suzie would be needing for today’s cooking demo. Not least among all the items that Suzie felt she needed were 1,000 popsicle sticks.
This item was doubly mystifying (to me, at least).
First off, what food could she be preparing in her “big wok” that would require the use of popsicle sticks.
And second, how could she possibly need a full 1,000 of them? Just how many people was she expecting would show up at the Grand Opening of a Kenny’s Quick Lube? It wasn’t like this was the re-opening of The Statue of Liberty or The Washington Monument. Or even the re-christening of some Confederate battlefield. (And we all know how much Southerners love their battlefields.) This was just an oil-change place, for cryin’ out loud. We weren’t going to be hosting crowds into the 1,000’s. (Not without way better traffic control, at least.)
Well, I figured, let’s let Suzie have her little secrets. She knew what she was up to, and I didn’t. (Plus, I think Allison’s cable-TV station was paying for all of this… Or maybe she was gonna bill Kenny when it was all over… I know I would’ve remembered if Suzie had asked me for a Chow TV credit card. THAT would’ve set off some alarm bells.)
As it was, I hadn’t seen her unpack any popsicle sticks, so maybe she was saving them for a surprise at the end of her show.
Meanwhile, the “popcorn shooting stars” had amazed the (admittedly sparse, at that point) crowd. And all their oohing and ahh-ing had drawn the attention of the (many more) folks at the free-car-wash, free-oil-change, and free-hotdogs venues…
… so I think it was “time for the show to begin!”
If I’d been an old-style carnival barker, I would’ve been shouting “gather ‘round, everybody! Step right up! See our own Suzie Snow Peas demonstrate the cilnary wonders of The Orient! She’s performed before the Courts of Europe, before the Sultans of the Arabian Desert, before the Emperor and Empress of Celestial Kindgom… and parts vast and unknown!”
Sorta like that guy in “The Wizard of Oz.” All we needed was a brass band blaring out some blustery fanfares. (And given the way this day was going, I wouldn’t have been 100% surprised if a for-real brass band had shown up.)
But I am decidedly NOT a carnival barker, old-style or otherwise, so I just kep my mouth shut. I DID stay standing nearby “the stage,” just in case Suzie might need me to fetch something. And I DID try to stand clear from the electrical cables, which I’d inadvertently tripped over a few minutes earlier, disconnecting her microphone and unplugging her “big wok,” thereby delaying the start of the show while the wok had to re-heat. But other than that, I tried to stay out of the way and keep my big mouth shut.
Sooner or later, I figured, I’d find out what all those popsicle sticks were for.
Now I do have to back up a bit, just to refresh your memory.
If you’ve been reading this column faithfully (which I assume you have), you’ll recall that just the before, Suzie and Butch and I drove to a nearby grocery store (recommended by Allison) to order up sll the stuff Suzie would be needing for today’s cooking demo. Not least among all the items that Suzie felt she needed were 1,000 popsicle sticks.
This item was doubly mystifying (to me, at least).
First off, what food could she be preparing in her “big wok” that would require the use of popsicle sticks.
And second, how could she possibly need a full 1,000 of them? Just how many people was she expecting would show up at the Grand Opening of a Kenny’s Quick Lube? It wasn’t like this was the re-opening of The Statue of Liberty or The Washington Monument. Or even the re-christening of some Confederate battlefield. (And we all know how much Southerners love their battlefields.) This was just an oil-change place, for cryin’ out loud. We weren’t going to be hosting crowds into the 1,000’s. (Not without way better traffic control, at least.)
Well, I figured, let’s let Suzie have her little secrets. She knew what she was up to, and I didn’t. (Plus, I think Allison’s cable-TV station was paying for all of this… Or maybe she was gonna bill Kenny when it was all over… I know I would’ve remembered if Suzie had asked me for a Chow TV credit card. THAT would’ve set off some alarm bells.)
As it was, I hadn’t seen her unpack any popsicle sticks, so maybe she was saving them for a surprise at the end of her show.
Meanwhile, the “popcorn shooting stars” had amazed the (admittedly sparse, at that point) crowd. And all their oohing and ahh-ing had drawn the attention of the (many more) folks at the free-car-wash, free-oil-change, and free-hotdogs venues…
… so I think it was “time for the show to begin!”
If I’d been an old-style carnival barker, I would’ve been shouting “gather ‘round, everybody! Step right up! See our own Suzie Snow Peas demonstrate the cilnary wonders of The Orient! She’s performed before the Courts of Europe, before the Sultans of the Arabian Desert, before the Emperor and Empress of Celestial Kindgom… and parts vast and unknown!”
Sorta like that guy in “The Wizard of Oz.” All we needed was a brass band blaring out some blustery fanfares. (And given the way this day was going, I wouldn’t have been 100% surprised if a for-real brass band had shown up.)
But I am decidedly NOT a carnival barker, old-style or otherwise, so I just kep my mouth shut. I DID stay standing nearby “the stage,” just in case Suzie might need me to fetch something. And I DID try to stand clear from the electrical cables, which I’d inadvertently tripped over a few minutes earlier, disconnecting her microphone and unplugging her “big wok,” thereby delaying the start of the show while the wok had to re-heat. But other than that, I tried to stay out of the way and keep my big mouth shut.
Sooner or later, I figured, I’d find out what all those popsicle sticks were for.
October 13, 2020
It’s quite a sight, the “popcorn shooting stars” that Suzie opens her shows with.
It’s also her way of insuring that her “big wok” is totally heated-up and ready-to-rock-n-roll. As in: just dump some stuff in, stir it around, and voila!
You maybe saw her TV special “Dorm-Room Stir-Fry: UCLA!” last year. (Heck, how could you miss it? It seemed like The Chow Network—admittedly my employer—ran that 2-hour show every day and every night for MONTHS. I mean, it was good, but if they’d really wanted to make her work, they could’ve at least turned it into a SERIES. You know: UCLA this week, then maybe down the road to Long Beach State next week. And on and on across the country, as she introduces unsuspecting college freshmen NATIONWIDE! To the joys and splendors of Chinese cooking… And all in one wok, in your dorm room! Or your friend’s dorm room, so you don’t have to suffer that cloying used-peanut-oil smell for the rest of the semester in YOUR room. But gee-whiz, isn’t it easy? You just throw in whatever you’ve got lying around. Leftover pizza, last night’s ramen, those stale Cheetos… Whatever! It all works!)
So when you’re in the audience, as dozens of unsuspecting Virginians were today, all of a sudden these colored popcorn kernels start exploding in Suzie’s “big wok” and flying off in every direction. Maybe one or two even fly in YOUR direction! And they come in red, and blue, and green, and some sort of orange-ish yellow… which is cool. And they’re edible! I mean, with your eyes closed, you can’t tell the difference. They taste just like regular popcorn.
Because they ARE regular popcorn. They’re just…
… well, yes…
… they’re just…
… genetically modified.
But so is just about everything else you eat.
We could have this discussion “till the cows come home,” and it wouldn’t change your mind. If you’re so inclined to be “genetically pure.” Or whatever.
But the point HERE is that Suzie’s “rainbow popcorn” isn’t DYED. There’s no Red Dye #4 or anything in it. So you won’t DIE when you eat it. And your grandchildren won’t be born with 8 arms and legs. The stuff is just GENETICALLY SELECTED to appear not-traditional-popcorn-yellow or not-traditional-popcorn-white. But it’s not DANGEROUS. Suzie wouldn’t be using it if it was DANGEROUS. She’s very old-school that way.
(Now me, on the other hand. If you want to chance eating MY cooking some evening, you might very well be in danger. But more because I don’t know what I’m doing than because of any latent MALICE on my part.)
(Do you remember the poison-goblet drinking contest in “The Princess Bride?” Eating at my house can seem like that, some nights.)
(But not at Suzie’s house. Not ever.)
So anyway, that day in Tidewater Virginia, if you’d been in the audience, you’d have gotten to witness the fun kickoff to Suzie’s cooking demo by watching all that red-blue-green-and-orange-ish-yellow popcorn flying out of her “big wok.” To the delight (especially of all the kids in the audience) of those lucky folks who’d woken up that morning thinking that they were just going to get a free oil change at the Grand Opening of a new suburban-Richmond Kenny’s Quick Lube. Little did they know that Suzie would also be there, offering to introduce them to the delicious world of Oriental cuisine.
As you’re reading this, you might want to dig your own personal wok out of the closet and make sure you’ve got some peanut oil in the pantry. (Or sunflower oil. Or, in a pinch, corn oil, I guess.) Give that wok a quick wipe with a wet towel (or soap and water if it’s been a while) and get ready to follow along.
Cuz I’m going to be sharing with you the recipe that Suzie showed off to her audience that day, down in Richmond.
So keep checking back in. We’re getting close!
It’s quite a sight, the “popcorn shooting stars” that Suzie opens her shows with.
It’s also her way of insuring that her “big wok” is totally heated-up and ready-to-rock-n-roll. As in: just dump some stuff in, stir it around, and voila!
You maybe saw her TV special “Dorm-Room Stir-Fry: UCLA!” last year. (Heck, how could you miss it? It seemed like The Chow Network—admittedly my employer—ran that 2-hour show every day and every night for MONTHS. I mean, it was good, but if they’d really wanted to make her work, they could’ve at least turned it into a SERIES. You know: UCLA this week, then maybe down the road to Long Beach State next week. And on and on across the country, as she introduces unsuspecting college freshmen NATIONWIDE! To the joys and splendors of Chinese cooking… And all in one wok, in your dorm room! Or your friend’s dorm room, so you don’t have to suffer that cloying used-peanut-oil smell for the rest of the semester in YOUR room. But gee-whiz, isn’t it easy? You just throw in whatever you’ve got lying around. Leftover pizza, last night’s ramen, those stale Cheetos… Whatever! It all works!)
So when you’re in the audience, as dozens of unsuspecting Virginians were today, all of a sudden these colored popcorn kernels start exploding in Suzie’s “big wok” and flying off in every direction. Maybe one or two even fly in YOUR direction! And they come in red, and blue, and green, and some sort of orange-ish yellow… which is cool. And they’re edible! I mean, with your eyes closed, you can’t tell the difference. They taste just like regular popcorn.
Because they ARE regular popcorn. They’re just…
… well, yes…
… they’re just…
… genetically modified.
But so is just about everything else you eat.
We could have this discussion “till the cows come home,” and it wouldn’t change your mind. If you’re so inclined to be “genetically pure.” Or whatever.
But the point HERE is that Suzie’s “rainbow popcorn” isn’t DYED. There’s no Red Dye #4 or anything in it. So you won’t DIE when you eat it. And your grandchildren won’t be born with 8 arms and legs. The stuff is just GENETICALLY SELECTED to appear not-traditional-popcorn-yellow or not-traditional-popcorn-white. But it’s not DANGEROUS. Suzie wouldn’t be using it if it was DANGEROUS. She’s very old-school that way.
(Now me, on the other hand. If you want to chance eating MY cooking some evening, you might very well be in danger. But more because I don’t know what I’m doing than because of any latent MALICE on my part.)
(Do you remember the poison-goblet drinking contest in “The Princess Bride?” Eating at my house can seem like that, some nights.)
(But not at Suzie’s house. Not ever.)
So anyway, that day in Tidewater Virginia, if you’d been in the audience, you’d have gotten to witness the fun kickoff to Suzie’s cooking demo by watching all that red-blue-green-and-orange-ish-yellow popcorn flying out of her “big wok.” To the delight (especially of all the kids in the audience) of those lucky folks who’d woken up that morning thinking that they were just going to get a free oil change at the Grand Opening of a new suburban-Richmond Kenny’s Quick Lube. Little did they know that Suzie would also be there, offering to introduce them to the delicious world of Oriental cuisine.
As you’re reading this, you might want to dig your own personal wok out of the closet and make sure you’ve got some peanut oil in the pantry. (Or sunflower oil. Or, in a pinch, corn oil, I guess.) Give that wok a quick wipe with a wet towel (or soap and water if it’s been a while) and get ready to follow along.
Cuz I’m going to be sharing with you the recipe that Suzie showed off to her audience that day, down in Richmond.
So keep checking back in. We’re getting close!
October 12, 2020
You see that picture, the Kool-Aid package, with the pitcher with the big smile on its face?
That smile wasn’t HALF AS BIG as the welcoming smile that I got from Allison, the moment she encountered me in the Kenny’s Quick Lube parking lot.
Boy, she was good! She made me feel SO MUCH better, just seeing her smile. (Deputy Rick was a lucky guy, to have a wife like her to come home to every day.)
But her smile belied a serious message.
“You’re not focusing,” she said to me. Directly to me. There was no one else standing there, so she was obviously addressing me. Personally. It really was one of those “Snap out of it!” moments.
“You have a show to do,” she continued. Earnestly. Like she really meant it. She wasn’t kidding.
And she was right. It wasn’t just Suzie up there on the “stage.” It was ALL OF US. We were A TEAM. So whatever Suzie needed the rest of us to do, we needed to be ready to help. Immediately.
And here I’d been, daydreaming about going off bowling, making myself lost for an hour or two. When Suzie might’ve needed me. (And when I thought about it, if I hadn’t been present for her cooking demo, I might never have found out what all those popsicle sticks were gonna be used for. So if nothing else, I should’ve wanted to stick around to find THAT out.)
Fortunately, I am sometimes capable of “snapping out of it.”
This was one of those moments.
And my first thought was: Where’s everybody else? I mean: Where were the other dogs? Sure, Suzie was up there “on stage,” hamming it up while her “big wok” was re-heating (stalling for time, actually). But where were the other guys? What if she needed THEM? For backup.
Well, they were nowhere to be seen. Maybe they were checking out the oil changes. (They are an inquisitive bunch.) Or maybe they were helping out at the free-car-wash operation. (They do love to get wet, if not actually clean.) Or maybe THEY were out looking for that bowling alley. (But I doubted it.) So maybe—quite possibly—they were off chasing some unfortunate cat.
Whatever. Suzie, up there “on stage,” wasn’t giving their absence a thought. She was wrapping up her comedy monologue, timed perfectly to coincide with the attention-grabbing stunt that she LOVED to pull whenever she performed for a new crowd. This was one trick which was at once ever-so-simple and yet totally-guaranteed-to-grab-an-audience’s-attention.
(And I hate to give away professional secrets, especially when they’re not mine, personally, but…
(… but, you’ll probably never get a chance to see Suzie IN PERSON. Sure, you can see her on TV all the time, but she never does this on TV. She saves this performance for her personal appearances only. So I don’t mind describing it to you. But if you ever DO get a chance to see Suzie in person, this is one of the wonders that you might have the pleasure of witnessing.)
Have you ever seen COLORED popcorn popping? It’s a delight for the eyes, certainly. But to see it come EXPLODING out of a WOK—and “on stage,” at that—totally unexpectedly…
… it’s like CHINESE NEW YEAR’S!
You’ve got all this stuff bursting into the air. Blue kernels, red kernels, green kernels!
And it’s all EDIBLE, too!
Truly a wonder.
Well, that’s how Suzie likes to open her show. COLORED POPCORN, FLYING ALL OVER THE PLACE!
Quite the showgirl, our Suzie Snow Peas!
You see that picture, the Kool-Aid package, with the pitcher with the big smile on its face?
That smile wasn’t HALF AS BIG as the welcoming smile that I got from Allison, the moment she encountered me in the Kenny’s Quick Lube parking lot.
Boy, she was good! She made me feel SO MUCH better, just seeing her smile. (Deputy Rick was a lucky guy, to have a wife like her to come home to every day.)
But her smile belied a serious message.
“You’re not focusing,” she said to me. Directly to me. There was no one else standing there, so she was obviously addressing me. Personally. It really was one of those “Snap out of it!” moments.
“You have a show to do,” she continued. Earnestly. Like she really meant it. She wasn’t kidding.
And she was right. It wasn’t just Suzie up there on the “stage.” It was ALL OF US. We were A TEAM. So whatever Suzie needed the rest of us to do, we needed to be ready to help. Immediately.
And here I’d been, daydreaming about going off bowling, making myself lost for an hour or two. When Suzie might’ve needed me. (And when I thought about it, if I hadn’t been present for her cooking demo, I might never have found out what all those popsicle sticks were gonna be used for. So if nothing else, I should’ve wanted to stick around to find THAT out.)
Fortunately, I am sometimes capable of “snapping out of it.”
This was one of those moments.
And my first thought was: Where’s everybody else? I mean: Where were the other dogs? Sure, Suzie was up there “on stage,” hamming it up while her “big wok” was re-heating (stalling for time, actually). But where were the other guys? What if she needed THEM? For backup.
Well, they were nowhere to be seen. Maybe they were checking out the oil changes. (They are an inquisitive bunch.) Or maybe they were helping out at the free-car-wash operation. (They do love to get wet, if not actually clean.) Or maybe THEY were out looking for that bowling alley. (But I doubted it.) So maybe—quite possibly—they were off chasing some unfortunate cat.
Whatever. Suzie, up there “on stage,” wasn’t giving their absence a thought. She was wrapping up her comedy monologue, timed perfectly to coincide with the attention-grabbing stunt that she LOVED to pull whenever she performed for a new crowd. This was one trick which was at once ever-so-simple and yet totally-guaranteed-to-grab-an-audience’s-attention.
(And I hate to give away professional secrets, especially when they’re not mine, personally, but…
(… but, you’ll probably never get a chance to see Suzie IN PERSON. Sure, you can see her on TV all the time, but she never does this on TV. She saves this performance for her personal appearances only. So I don’t mind describing it to you. But if you ever DO get a chance to see Suzie in person, this is one of the wonders that you might have the pleasure of witnessing.)
Have you ever seen COLORED popcorn popping? It’s a delight for the eyes, certainly. But to see it come EXPLODING out of a WOK—and “on stage,” at that—totally unexpectedly…
… it’s like CHINESE NEW YEAR’S!
You’ve got all this stuff bursting into the air. Blue kernels, red kernels, green kernels!
And it’s all EDIBLE, too!
Truly a wonder.
Well, that’s how Suzie likes to open her show. COLORED POPCORN, FLYING ALL OVER THE PLACE!
Quite the showgirl, our Suzie Snow Peas!
October 9, 2020
Why not? I wouldn’t be missed.
Plus, we’re always joking about going bowling. (And it IS a joke. I don’t think any of the guys has ever set a paw inside a bowling emporium.) (Back in my childhood, these places were called “bowling alleys.” Then they started getting called “bowling centers.” Or worse: “family bowling centers.” As if, I guess, a family would get preferential treatment. Say, the last available lane would HAVE to go to a family of four. Or more. Rather, than, 2 or 3 slackers like Jeffrey Lebowski and his pals.)
So all I had to do was find out where a bowling center might be. But in a strip-mall-friendly place like where this present Kenny’s Quick Lube was, there must’ve been a bowling center somewhere within walking distance.
Because I couldn’t crank up the Tour Bus and drive there. What if somebody needed something out of The Bus? (Like Suzie. Man, she’d never forgive me if she needed something for her show, last-minute, and I’d taken it on a joyride. Even if “said joyride” was somewhere important. Like a bowling alley.)
So whom would I ask?
Well… I looked right, and I looked left. In one direction was the dry cleaner’s. In the other was the convenience store.
So I wandered over to the convenience store. THEY (whoever was working there) should know where the nearest bowling alley was.
Or so I would’ve thought. But they didn’t. Neither of the 2 guys working there. (Nor did they seem to care. Surprise, surprise.)
So I walked over to the dry cleaner’s, not feeling quite as optimistic as when I’d approached the convenience store.
And there I was met with yet another surprise.
Because, for some reason, they thought I was there LOOKING FOR A JOB.
I specifically said something about “bowling alley. “ So how that got confused with “looking for a job,” I don’t know.
But next thing I knew, they’d handed me a clipboard with a job application, and after I grabbed it with my left hand and accepted a ball-point pen with my right hand, and stood there sorta half-stunned, they started asking me all sorts of questions about whether I was allergic to various types of cleaning fluids, (jokingly) asking whether I minded working in “high heat” conditions, and observing (from the looks of me, I guess, from the way I was dressed and the slumped-shoulders way I carried myself) that I must need this job “real bad.
Always a blow to one’s self-esteem, having other people think (straight-away) that you’re totally DESPERATE.
Which I wasn’t. By any means.
Sure, chaperoning 8 self-centered prima-donna dogs wouldn’t be EVERYONE’S first choice in employment opportunities, but I enjoyed it. For the most part.
But that didn’t mean that I didn’t need to GET AWAY FROM IT ALL occasionally. Like right now. Which was why I was searching for a bowling emporium, at that precise moment.
I had NOT come looking for a job. I was looking for a chance to go bowling.
Or maybe see a movie. Maybe I could just find a movie theater.
Heck, they’re EVERYWHERE! Right? There must be a movie theater somewhere nearby. Somewhere within walking distance.
(Come to think of it, statistically, a movie theater would be more likely to find than a bowling alley. I’d think.)
So I asked the dry cleaner people if there was a movie theater nearby.
And they seemed to think that I was talking about “moving.” As in: “moving van.” Like I thought that they were in the business of moving household furniture, or something. You know, like “Allied Van Lines. And they assured me that I wouldn’t have to move anything heavy. Yes, they did deliveries, so yeah, I’d have to do deliveries. But no “moving.” As in: furniture.
Which, I guess, might’ve been gratifying.
IF… IF I’d been applying for a job. Which I wasn’t.
I somehow managed to get out of there alive. I just dropped the clipboard with the job application on the counter (along with the ball-point pen), turned and half-dashed out the front, almost flattening a stout older woman who was entering, carrying an armload of either ball gowns or drapes, I couldn’t tell.
Nor did I care, of course. I’d just needed to ESCAPE.
And once I was safely out the door, I stood in the parking lot for a moment, shaking from every imaginable extremity, breathing heavily, and sweating “to beat the band” (as my sainted mother used to say).
Jeez, I thought, I’ve gotta start exercising more. I shouldn’t turn into a wreck, simple from trying to walk out of a Twilight Zone dry cleaning joint!
I needed Cher standing in front of me, slapping me good-and-hard in the face like she did with Nicholas Cage in “Moonstruck,” and yelling at me to “SNEP OUT OF IT!”
That’s what I needed.
But she wasn’t around. Wasn’t gonna show.
So I shambled back over to the Kenny’s Quick Lube and had a free cold drink. Then another. Something that tasted sort-of like Hawaiian Punch. Or Maybe Kool-Aid.
What I could’ve used, right then, was a Hawaiian Punch or cherry Kool-Aid with a couple of shots of vodka.
Or tequila. That would’ve worked.
Why not? I wouldn’t be missed.
Plus, we’re always joking about going bowling. (And it IS a joke. I don’t think any of the guys has ever set a paw inside a bowling emporium.) (Back in my childhood, these places were called “bowling alleys.” Then they started getting called “bowling centers.” Or worse: “family bowling centers.” As if, I guess, a family would get preferential treatment. Say, the last available lane would HAVE to go to a family of four. Or more. Rather, than, 2 or 3 slackers like Jeffrey Lebowski and his pals.)
So all I had to do was find out where a bowling center might be. But in a strip-mall-friendly place like where this present Kenny’s Quick Lube was, there must’ve been a bowling center somewhere within walking distance.
Because I couldn’t crank up the Tour Bus and drive there. What if somebody needed something out of The Bus? (Like Suzie. Man, she’d never forgive me if she needed something for her show, last-minute, and I’d taken it on a joyride. Even if “said joyride” was somewhere important. Like a bowling alley.)
So whom would I ask?
Well… I looked right, and I looked left. In one direction was the dry cleaner’s. In the other was the convenience store.
So I wandered over to the convenience store. THEY (whoever was working there) should know where the nearest bowling alley was.
Or so I would’ve thought. But they didn’t. Neither of the 2 guys working there. (Nor did they seem to care. Surprise, surprise.)
So I walked over to the dry cleaner’s, not feeling quite as optimistic as when I’d approached the convenience store.
And there I was met with yet another surprise.
Because, for some reason, they thought I was there LOOKING FOR A JOB.
I specifically said something about “bowling alley. “ So how that got confused with “looking for a job,” I don’t know.
But next thing I knew, they’d handed me a clipboard with a job application, and after I grabbed it with my left hand and accepted a ball-point pen with my right hand, and stood there sorta half-stunned, they started asking me all sorts of questions about whether I was allergic to various types of cleaning fluids, (jokingly) asking whether I minded working in “high heat” conditions, and observing (from the looks of me, I guess, from the way I was dressed and the slumped-shoulders way I carried myself) that I must need this job “real bad.
Always a blow to one’s self-esteem, having other people think (straight-away) that you’re totally DESPERATE.
Which I wasn’t. By any means.
Sure, chaperoning 8 self-centered prima-donna dogs wouldn’t be EVERYONE’S first choice in employment opportunities, but I enjoyed it. For the most part.
But that didn’t mean that I didn’t need to GET AWAY FROM IT ALL occasionally. Like right now. Which was why I was searching for a bowling emporium, at that precise moment.
I had NOT come looking for a job. I was looking for a chance to go bowling.
Or maybe see a movie. Maybe I could just find a movie theater.
Heck, they’re EVERYWHERE! Right? There must be a movie theater somewhere nearby. Somewhere within walking distance.
(Come to think of it, statistically, a movie theater would be more likely to find than a bowling alley. I’d think.)
So I asked the dry cleaner people if there was a movie theater nearby.
And they seemed to think that I was talking about “moving.” As in: “moving van.” Like I thought that they were in the business of moving household furniture, or something. You know, like “Allied Van Lines. And they assured me that I wouldn’t have to move anything heavy. Yes, they did deliveries, so yeah, I’d have to do deliveries. But no “moving.” As in: furniture.
Which, I guess, might’ve been gratifying.
IF… IF I’d been applying for a job. Which I wasn’t.
I somehow managed to get out of there alive. I just dropped the clipboard with the job application on the counter (along with the ball-point pen), turned and half-dashed out the front, almost flattening a stout older woman who was entering, carrying an armload of either ball gowns or drapes, I couldn’t tell.
Nor did I care, of course. I’d just needed to ESCAPE.
And once I was safely out the door, I stood in the parking lot for a moment, shaking from every imaginable extremity, breathing heavily, and sweating “to beat the band” (as my sainted mother used to say).
Jeez, I thought, I’ve gotta start exercising more. I shouldn’t turn into a wreck, simple from trying to walk out of a Twilight Zone dry cleaning joint!
I needed Cher standing in front of me, slapping me good-and-hard in the face like she did with Nicholas Cage in “Moonstruck,” and yelling at me to “SNEP OUT OF IT!”
That’s what I needed.
But she wasn’t around. Wasn’t gonna show.
So I shambled back over to the Kenny’s Quick Lube and had a free cold drink. Then another. Something that tasted sort-of like Hawaiian Punch. Or Maybe Kool-Aid.
What I could’ve used, right then, was a Hawaiian Punch or cherry Kool-Aid with a couple of shots of vodka.
Or tequila. That would’ve worked.
October 8, 2020
But then, we wouldn’t experience the joy of “accomplishment.” Of actually DOING SOMETHING USEFUL AND/OR WORTHWHILE.
To which you could say: What? Like driving a bunch of self-centered dogs around the country?
Sure, you could say that, but you’d better not say it out loud anywhere near THEM.
And remember: Dogs can hear something like 10,000 times better than humans.
So don’t even think of WHISPERING it.
So…
So what was I supposed to do now? Other than stay away from disconnecting any nearby electrical cables.
Just make myself scarce, I guess. Suzie obviously didn’t need me to play her on-stage sous chef.
I looked around, and couldn’t even see any of the other dogs. They were obviously not real interested in whatever cooking demo Suzie was going to pull off. Which was predictable. THEY, after all, were all prima-donna chefs themselves, so why should they care about whatever SHE was cooking up. They certainly didn’t want to hear people laughing and applauding at HER antics.
I guess I could’ve walked over to the oil-changing bays and exchanged banter with all the dads who were ogling the pretty girls (dressed in Indy 500 pit-crew coveralls) whom Kenny had hired to do today’s free oil changes. You know, talk about sports and politics and different brands of beer, manly stuff like that.
Or I could’ve walked over to the free car wash area, and gotten sprayed by a bunch of high-school kids.
Where, exactly was Allison and her cable-TV live-remote video crew? Maybe they were interviewing Kenny somewhere. Or maybe filming an oil change. Boy, that would play great on the 5:00 o’clock news!
You know, where I come from, we have a saying: “When in doubt, go skiing.”
Well, I was here in Virginia, and there was definitely no snow around, so skiing was pretty much out of the question. But there was an alternative.
Which one of us had actually suggested, just 2 days earlier:
I could go bowling!
But then, we wouldn’t experience the joy of “accomplishment.” Of actually DOING SOMETHING USEFUL AND/OR WORTHWHILE.
To which you could say: What? Like driving a bunch of self-centered dogs around the country?
Sure, you could say that, but you’d better not say it out loud anywhere near THEM.
And remember: Dogs can hear something like 10,000 times better than humans.
So don’t even think of WHISPERING it.
So…
So what was I supposed to do now? Other than stay away from disconnecting any nearby electrical cables.
Just make myself scarce, I guess. Suzie obviously didn’t need me to play her on-stage sous chef.
I looked around, and couldn’t even see any of the other dogs. They were obviously not real interested in whatever cooking demo Suzie was going to pull off. Which was predictable. THEY, after all, were all prima-donna chefs themselves, so why should they care about whatever SHE was cooking up. They certainly didn’t want to hear people laughing and applauding at HER antics.
I guess I could’ve walked over to the oil-changing bays and exchanged banter with all the dads who were ogling the pretty girls (dressed in Indy 500 pit-crew coveralls) whom Kenny had hired to do today’s free oil changes. You know, talk about sports and politics and different brands of beer, manly stuff like that.
Or I could’ve walked over to the free car wash area, and gotten sprayed by a bunch of high-school kids.
Where, exactly was Allison and her cable-TV live-remote video crew? Maybe they were interviewing Kenny somewhere. Or maybe filming an oil change. Boy, that would play great on the 5:00 o’clock news!
You know, where I come from, we have a saying: “When in doubt, go skiing.”
Well, I was here in Virginia, and there was definitely no snow around, so skiing was pretty much out of the question. But there was an alternative.
Which one of us had actually suggested, just 2 days earlier:
I could go bowling!
October 7, 2020
I won’t repeat any of her jokes.
Not that they were off-color, or anything. It was a family-friendly event, after all.
Actually, as I said, at that particular point, the only folks hanging around the “stage” were kids and dogs. All the adults were busy at the free car wash or waiting in line for a free oil change… And the only reason the kids would’ve been there was because they’d already eaten way-too-many free hot dogs… and the free-ice-cream table hadn’t opened yet.
But I’m not going to repeat any of Suzie’s jokes, because how would you feel if you went to one of her celebrity-chef appearances 6 months from now, and you heard some of the same jokes? That wouldn’t be any fun.
And Suzie would argue: Why can’t I—John-- develop my own material?
(Answer: Well, if you’d ever heard any of MY jokes, you’d know how desperate I am for ANY usable material.)
(Here’s an example of a John joke: “A horse walks into a bar, and the bartender says, ‘Why the long face?’” Pathetic, right?)
(Here’s joke I never managed to finish: “A man walks into a bar with a parrot sitting on his shoulder. And the bartender says to the parrot, “So who’s your friend?’”… And I never came up with a punch line. I carried that joke around for years, and never came up with ANYTHING.) (I’m more than open to suggestions. So if you have any ideas, please let me know. I’d LOVE to have a punch line for this joke.)
Anyway…
Suzie had to do 10 minutes of stand-up while her “big wok” was heating back up. I tried to stay clear of the electrical cords, so I wouldn’t disconnect things again. Sometimes, it seems, my biggest role is to simply “stand clear.” It’s humbling. But, then, I AM in the presence of geniuses…
… Or so they say…
… Quite often.
… Basically, every day.
Which is fine. As I’ve said, what I really don’t like doing—seriously—is driving The Bus.
So as long as I can sit back and watch the miles roll by from the comfort of a passenger seat, I’m fine.
Might that not be a metaphor for Life. Being allowed the comfort and ease of a passenger seat. Having nothing to do but watch the miles roll by.
We should all—and always—be so lucky.
I won’t repeat any of her jokes.
Not that they were off-color, or anything. It was a family-friendly event, after all.
Actually, as I said, at that particular point, the only folks hanging around the “stage” were kids and dogs. All the adults were busy at the free car wash or waiting in line for a free oil change… And the only reason the kids would’ve been there was because they’d already eaten way-too-many free hot dogs… and the free-ice-cream table hadn’t opened yet.
But I’m not going to repeat any of Suzie’s jokes, because how would you feel if you went to one of her celebrity-chef appearances 6 months from now, and you heard some of the same jokes? That wouldn’t be any fun.
And Suzie would argue: Why can’t I—John-- develop my own material?
(Answer: Well, if you’d ever heard any of MY jokes, you’d know how desperate I am for ANY usable material.)
(Here’s an example of a John joke: “A horse walks into a bar, and the bartender says, ‘Why the long face?’” Pathetic, right?)
(Here’s joke I never managed to finish: “A man walks into a bar with a parrot sitting on his shoulder. And the bartender says to the parrot, “So who’s your friend?’”… And I never came up with a punch line. I carried that joke around for years, and never came up with ANYTHING.) (I’m more than open to suggestions. So if you have any ideas, please let me know. I’d LOVE to have a punch line for this joke.)
Anyway…
Suzie had to do 10 minutes of stand-up while her “big wok” was heating back up. I tried to stay clear of the electrical cords, so I wouldn’t disconnect things again. Sometimes, it seems, my biggest role is to simply “stand clear.” It’s humbling. But, then, I AM in the presence of geniuses…
… Or so they say…
… Quite often.
… Basically, every day.
Which is fine. As I’ve said, what I really don’t like doing—seriously—is driving The Bus.
So as long as I can sit back and watch the miles roll by from the comfort of a passenger seat, I’m fine.
Might that not be a metaphor for Life. Being allowed the comfort and ease of a passenger seat. Having nothing to do but watch the miles roll by.
We should all—and always—be so lucky.
October 5, 2020
Where were we?
Oh yeah. The parking lot! Kenny’s Quick Lube. Suzie’s cooking demonstration.
So I had to tell myself: SNAP OUT OF IT! WE’VE GOT A SHOW TO PUT ON!
I’d rolled off of the unplugged electrical cords, and after a brief moment of head-rolling and limb-shaking—to get over the “shocking” effects of the sudden electrical surge through my extremities—I jumped to my feet and plugged the darn things back together again.
Just in time so that Suzie could continue her introduction and welcoming remarks to the crowd.
Which couldn’t have numbered more than 50 adults, at that point. There are easily twice as many kids and dogs, by my count. A lot more adults were milling around their cars, either at the free car-wash area or over in front of the oil-change bays. This was an automobile oil-change business, after all, so perhaps that was to be expected. (Or from Kenny’s perspective, the whole idea of the Opening day festivities, in the first place.)
So Suzie’s job wasn’t to DISTRACT from the oil-change opportunities, but to ADD A LITTLE SPICE to the event. And I’m sure that she understood that. Suzie’s a professional.
Of course, she’s also a ham—as are all of my guys. She does LOVE to be the center of attention. But in this case, she wasn’t exactly A SIDESHOW, but she wasn’t supposed to be THE MAIN EVENT, either.
But she’s every bit the showman. (Of course, I’ve been known to exaggerate.) However…
Not only is she a great chef. She’s also “good with animals.” And “good with children.” And generally, usually “willing to please.” And willing to “fill a bill” (in old vaudeville parlance).
So I knew that she’d be the perfect person to do this cooking demonstration. Because it would probably require multiple performance skills.
(Little did we know, of course, that she would have to do a 10-minute comedy monologue while her “big wok” re-heated… after I’d unplugged it… But even the 10-minute comedy monologue worked out well.
(Think about it: How unexpected and intriguing would it be, to be treated to 10 minutes’ worth of stand-up palaver by a 4-year-old Pekingese? It’d be a once-in-a-lifetime experience, for most folks.)
And all that, while her “big wok” heated back up.
It’s a good thing that I hadn’t permanently damaged the sound system.
At any rate, I think it’s fair to characterize Suzie as a woman who can wear many hats.
Where were we?
Oh yeah. The parking lot! Kenny’s Quick Lube. Suzie’s cooking demonstration.
So I had to tell myself: SNAP OUT OF IT! WE’VE GOT A SHOW TO PUT ON!
I’d rolled off of the unplugged electrical cords, and after a brief moment of head-rolling and limb-shaking—to get over the “shocking” effects of the sudden electrical surge through my extremities—I jumped to my feet and plugged the darn things back together again.
Just in time so that Suzie could continue her introduction and welcoming remarks to the crowd.
Which couldn’t have numbered more than 50 adults, at that point. There are easily twice as many kids and dogs, by my count. A lot more adults were milling around their cars, either at the free car-wash area or over in front of the oil-change bays. This was an automobile oil-change business, after all, so perhaps that was to be expected. (Or from Kenny’s perspective, the whole idea of the Opening day festivities, in the first place.)
So Suzie’s job wasn’t to DISTRACT from the oil-change opportunities, but to ADD A LITTLE SPICE to the event. And I’m sure that she understood that. Suzie’s a professional.
Of course, she’s also a ham—as are all of my guys. She does LOVE to be the center of attention. But in this case, she wasn’t exactly A SIDESHOW, but she wasn’t supposed to be THE MAIN EVENT, either.
But she’s every bit the showman. (Of course, I’ve been known to exaggerate.) However…
Not only is she a great chef. She’s also “good with animals.” And “good with children.” And generally, usually “willing to please.” And willing to “fill a bill” (in old vaudeville parlance).
So I knew that she’d be the perfect person to do this cooking demonstration. Because it would probably require multiple performance skills.
(Little did we know, of course, that she would have to do a 10-minute comedy monologue while her “big wok” re-heated… after I’d unplugged it… But even the 10-minute comedy monologue worked out well.
(Think about it: How unexpected and intriguing would it be, to be treated to 10 minutes’ worth of stand-up palaver by a 4-year-old Pekingese? It’d be a once-in-a-lifetime experience, for most folks.)
And all that, while her “big wok” heated back up.
It’s a good thing that I hadn’t permanently damaged the sound system.
At any rate, I think it’s fair to characterize Suzie as a woman who can wear many hats.
October 2, 2020
Which, needless to say, hurt.
It seriously felt like the devil had jammed me with a cattle prod. Which would explain why I found myself lying on the ground, in pain and grasping my “buttocks” (as Forrest Gump would say.)
Only upon closer inspection did I realize that what had happened was:
I’d tripped over the electrical cables, causing them to disconnect. And THEN I fell, as so often happens when you trip over something while walking and your feet don’t land where they’re supposed to.
And when I fell down, I wound up SITTING RIGHT ON the disconnected electrical cable jacks, which somehow decided that my “buttocks” would make a convenient (or at least adequate) “conductor” of electricity, so the current emanating from the brand-new Kenny’s Quick Lube was now surging through my body.
And THAT’S what felt like The Devil’s Cattle Prod.
It took only a split-second for me ton unwittingly roll over and off of the connecting jacks, for the current to CEASE SURGING through my body.
Which was fortunate. (I think in another few milliseconds my hair would’ve started turning white, and then in another few milliseconds my teeth would started falling out.)
(Gee, if it had worked the other way—if my teeth had started turning white, and my hair… No. That wouldn’t be any better. For a moment there, I thought I’d stumbled upon a revolutionary highly-marketable home grooming product… Darn.) (You can see where my mind so often is. Always trying to find the perfect get-rich scheme.)
Which, needless to say, hurt.
It seriously felt like the devil had jammed me with a cattle prod. Which would explain why I found myself lying on the ground, in pain and grasping my “buttocks” (as Forrest Gump would say.)
Only upon closer inspection did I realize that what had happened was:
I’d tripped over the electrical cables, causing them to disconnect. And THEN I fell, as so often happens when you trip over something while walking and your feet don’t land where they’re supposed to.
And when I fell down, I wound up SITTING RIGHT ON the disconnected electrical cable jacks, which somehow decided that my “buttocks” would make a convenient (or at least adequate) “conductor” of electricity, so the current emanating from the brand-new Kenny’s Quick Lube was now surging through my body.
And THAT’S what felt like The Devil’s Cattle Prod.
It took only a split-second for me ton unwittingly roll over and off of the connecting jacks, for the current to CEASE SURGING through my body.
Which was fortunate. (I think in another few milliseconds my hair would’ve started turning white, and then in another few milliseconds my teeth would started falling out.)
(Gee, if it had worked the other way—if my teeth had started turning white, and my hair… No. That wouldn’t be any better. For a moment there, I thought I’d stumbled upon a revolutionary highly-marketable home grooming product… Darn.) (You can see where my mind so often is. Always trying to find the perfect get-rich scheme.)
October 1, 2020
Just for the record, it wasn’t really “a hand” that I wound up lending to the festivities.
It was more like “a foot.”
Because, as I was “moseying” over to Suzie’s improvised “stage,” where she was (I hoped/assumed) about to begin her long-awaited and long-anticipated cooking demonstration, I apparently wasn’t watching where I was going.
Or more properly: I wasn’t watching what was RIGHT THERE ON THE GROUND where I was walking.
So when my feet got REAL, REAL CLOSE to those two electrical cables running from the brand-new Kenny’s Quick Lube building over to Suzie’s set of 4-by-8 plywood sheets, which were sitting atop a bunch of empty used 55-gallon oil drums, I was completely UNAWARE that I was about to DISCONNECT both her microphone AND her wok.
HER WOK. You know: that circular dish-like heating element that has to be virtually RED-HOT in order to stir-fry…
… basically anything.
I mean, you never stir-fry anything on “LOW,” right? It’s always on “HIGH.” It’s all-or-nothing. “Bombs Away.” “FULL SPEED.”
For all I know, there IS NO setting for “LOW” on a wok. It just heats up TO THE MAX, and then you start cooking.
Well, as we all would know, if you unplug the device, it does not heat up to “HIGH.” In fact, it cools right down.
Which is what happened, right after my foot disconnected to electrical cables.
And Suzie, being a true professional, noticed that, immediately after she became aware that her microphone was no longer working.
The only reason that I became aware that something was wrong, was that once I’d inadvertently disconnected the electrical cables, both of the “live” connectors bounced off of the newly-laid concrete and bit me (quite literally) in the butt.
It felt (no exaggeration) like the devil had just jammed me with a cattle prod.
Just for the record, it wasn’t really “a hand” that I wound up lending to the festivities.
It was more like “a foot.”
Because, as I was “moseying” over to Suzie’s improvised “stage,” where she was (I hoped/assumed) about to begin her long-awaited and long-anticipated cooking demonstration, I apparently wasn’t watching where I was going.
Or more properly: I wasn’t watching what was RIGHT THERE ON THE GROUND where I was walking.
So when my feet got REAL, REAL CLOSE to those two electrical cables running from the brand-new Kenny’s Quick Lube building over to Suzie’s set of 4-by-8 plywood sheets, which were sitting atop a bunch of empty used 55-gallon oil drums, I was completely UNAWARE that I was about to DISCONNECT both her microphone AND her wok.
HER WOK. You know: that circular dish-like heating element that has to be virtually RED-HOT in order to stir-fry…
… basically anything.
I mean, you never stir-fry anything on “LOW,” right? It’s always on “HIGH.” It’s all-or-nothing. “Bombs Away.” “FULL SPEED.”
For all I know, there IS NO setting for “LOW” on a wok. It just heats up TO THE MAX, and then you start cooking.
Well, as we all would know, if you unplug the device, it does not heat up to “HIGH.” In fact, it cools right down.
Which is what happened, right after my foot disconnected to electrical cables.
And Suzie, being a true professional, noticed that, immediately after she became aware that her microphone was no longer working.
The only reason that I became aware that something was wrong, was that once I’d inadvertently disconnected the electrical cables, both of the “live” connectors bounced off of the newly-laid concrete and bit me (quite literally) in the butt.
It felt (no exaggeration) like the devil had just jammed me with a cattle prod.
September 29, 2020
They looked like Oakland Raiders fans.
Yeah. Had to be.
So what were they doing here?
Could it have been the free hot dogs?
But no sooner had they pulled into the parking lot, causing (of course) and immediate reaction from all the dogs already in attendance, than they headed straight for the oil-changing bays.
Which made sense, of course, seeing as how this was in fact the Grand Opening of a Kenny’s Quick Lube, so you’d think that at least SOME of the folks who’d shown up would’ve been there SPECIFICALLY to get a free oil change.
Which apparently was what the rider of this medium-sized hog was looking for.
Unfortunately, there was either some misunderstanding or some disagreement about servicing motorcycles (though I don’t see why). Because the next thing I knew, I heard several loud voices coming from the service bay area, and none of them sounded pleased.
I glanced over here, and Kenny himself was nowhere to be seen. Maybe that’s what a good manager/owner does: avoid being present when an unsolvable argument breaks out.
Well, whatever the cause of the unhappiness was, the next thing we innocent onlookers saw was this same motorcycle ripping its way right back OUT of the parking lot.
Which, if nothing else, had avoided the unpleasant possibility of a many-dogs-confronting-a-single-(however feisty and self-assured)-… CAT.
Nothing good was ever gonna come from THAT sort of encounter. Even in public, with the families and kids and all the free food and feeling of easy camaraderie. Many dogs versus one cat never ends well.
So we all breathed a collective sigh of relief, and went back to whatever we’d been doing. Eating free hot dogs, drinking the free cold drinks, waiting for the free ice cream table to open up…
… or, in my case, wondering what I could do to help Suzie get her cooking demonstration started. That’s why we were here.
I looked around to find Allison, and saw her interviewing Kenny on-camera. (Which was probably why he hadn’t been over at the service bays when the motorcycle guy had been causing a ruckus.) That interview was most likely the kick-off to Allison’s cable-TV station’s live-remote promotional coverage. (And, in that sense, Suzie’s cooking demo was but a small part.) (Not necessarily a side show, of course. Knowing Suzie, her performance could well become the HIGHLIGHT of the whole afternoon.)
The grocery-store delivery van had departed, it appeared, which meant that they must have already dumped off all of Suzie’s food and supplies and stuff.
So I moseyed over to her “table,” which was really 8 4-by-8 sheets of plywood plunked down on some old empty 55-gallon oil drums, to see if I could lend a hand.
I should always be leery of off-handedly moseying over to damn-near ANYWHERE to offer to lend a hand. It hardly EVER turns out well.
They looked like Oakland Raiders fans.
Yeah. Had to be.
So what were they doing here?
Could it have been the free hot dogs?
But no sooner had they pulled into the parking lot, causing (of course) and immediate reaction from all the dogs already in attendance, than they headed straight for the oil-changing bays.
Which made sense, of course, seeing as how this was in fact the Grand Opening of a Kenny’s Quick Lube, so you’d think that at least SOME of the folks who’d shown up would’ve been there SPECIFICALLY to get a free oil change.
Which apparently was what the rider of this medium-sized hog was looking for.
Unfortunately, there was either some misunderstanding or some disagreement about servicing motorcycles (though I don’t see why). Because the next thing I knew, I heard several loud voices coming from the service bay area, and none of them sounded pleased.
I glanced over here, and Kenny himself was nowhere to be seen. Maybe that’s what a good manager/owner does: avoid being present when an unsolvable argument breaks out.
Well, whatever the cause of the unhappiness was, the next thing we innocent onlookers saw was this same motorcycle ripping its way right back OUT of the parking lot.
Which, if nothing else, had avoided the unpleasant possibility of a many-dogs-confronting-a-single-(however feisty and self-assured)-… CAT.
Nothing good was ever gonna come from THAT sort of encounter. Even in public, with the families and kids and all the free food and feeling of easy camaraderie. Many dogs versus one cat never ends well.
So we all breathed a collective sigh of relief, and went back to whatever we’d been doing. Eating free hot dogs, drinking the free cold drinks, waiting for the free ice cream table to open up…
… or, in my case, wondering what I could do to help Suzie get her cooking demonstration started. That’s why we were here.
I looked around to find Allison, and saw her interviewing Kenny on-camera. (Which was probably why he hadn’t been over at the service bays when the motorcycle guy had been causing a ruckus.) That interview was most likely the kick-off to Allison’s cable-TV station’s live-remote promotional coverage. (And, in that sense, Suzie’s cooking demo was but a small part.) (Not necessarily a side show, of course. Knowing Suzie, her performance could well become the HIGHLIGHT of the whole afternoon.)
The grocery-store delivery van had departed, it appeared, which meant that they must have already dumped off all of Suzie’s food and supplies and stuff.
So I moseyed over to her “table,” which was really 8 4-by-8 sheets of plywood plunked down on some old empty 55-gallon oil drums, to see if I could lend a hand.
I should always be leery of off-handedly moseying over to damn-near ANYWHERE to offer to lend a hand. It hardly EVER turns out well.
September 28, 2020
From a purely selfish standpoint—assuming we didn’t care whether Kenny’s Grand Opening was a monster success or not—we still would’ve wanted a pleasant, family-atmosphere, no-bums-hassling-children environment so that everybody could concentrate on Suzie’s upcoming cooking demonstration. That’s, after all, the only reason why WE were there. (It certainly wasn’t for the free hot dogs.) (Though it looked like Barnacle Bill and Terry had already consumed 4 or 5 apiece, so the quality didn’t seem to be bothering THEM.)
Anyway, the grocery-store delivery van had just pulled into the parking lot, and the driver and his assistant were unloading everything, under Suzie’s direction. So “the show” was about to begin.
I still hadn’t figured out what all the popsicle sticks that Suzie’d ordered were going to be used for, but that might’ve only been ONE OF MANY surprises that she had in store for us. Suzie was quite the showgirl.
(And you know that. You’ve seen her show. Countless times, I’m sure. So as you know: she never fails to surprise!)
But apart from our need to get rid of the panhandlers, there was one other group of creatures whom I really didn’t need to see.
Close your eyes and guess.
I’m traveling the country with 8 highly-strung dogs. What group of creatures might they not want to encounter?
Well, one of them just pulled into the parking lot.
From a purely selfish standpoint—assuming we didn’t care whether Kenny’s Grand Opening was a monster success or not—we still would’ve wanted a pleasant, family-atmosphere, no-bums-hassling-children environment so that everybody could concentrate on Suzie’s upcoming cooking demonstration. That’s, after all, the only reason why WE were there. (It certainly wasn’t for the free hot dogs.) (Though it looked like Barnacle Bill and Terry had already consumed 4 or 5 apiece, so the quality didn’t seem to be bothering THEM.)
Anyway, the grocery-store delivery van had just pulled into the parking lot, and the driver and his assistant were unloading everything, under Suzie’s direction. So “the show” was about to begin.
I still hadn’t figured out what all the popsicle sticks that Suzie’d ordered were going to be used for, but that might’ve only been ONE OF MANY surprises that she had in store for us. Suzie was quite the showgirl.
(And you know that. You’ve seen her show. Countless times, I’m sure. So as you know: she never fails to surprise!)
But apart from our need to get rid of the panhandlers, there was one other group of creatures whom I really didn’t need to see.
Close your eyes and guess.
I’m traveling the country with 8 highly-strung dogs. What group of creatures might they not want to encounter?
Well, one of them just pulled into the parking lot.
September 25, 2020
Oh. Yeah, I could see where that would create a problem. Here was Kenny, trying to stage a pleasant, family-atmosphere Grand Opening for his latest Kenny’s Quick Lube location, and you’ve got panhandlers parked right at the entrance, right where people are going to be walking in.
Walking in to sample the free (really tasteless) hot dogs, sip a free cold drink, eventually (maybe) get a free ice cream. You know: Bring the kids!
And then you’re confronted, before you’ve even gotten to the free food table, with a couple of old geezers begging for spare change. Or better.
Plus, by the looks of them, they were METS FANS.
What were they doing down here, outside of Richmond, Virginia?
I mean, if they wanted to beg near the entrance to the Holland Tunnel, well, at least that’s their territory. This here was Virginia. Hundreds of miles from home.
If they’d been Washington Nationals fans…
… or even Orioles fans…
… then maybe we could’ve cut ‘em some slack.
But as it was, I decided that we should just nip this in the bud.
So I sicced Howie on them.
There’s always a polite way to “escort” someone “off the premises.” And if anyone would know, it would be our own Howie. He could be persuasive, and he could be polite. Sometimes he could be both, at the same time.
The idea, though, was to get them to vamoose.
Pronto.
Oh. Yeah, I could see where that would create a problem. Here was Kenny, trying to stage a pleasant, family-atmosphere Grand Opening for his latest Kenny’s Quick Lube location, and you’ve got panhandlers parked right at the entrance, right where people are going to be walking in.
Walking in to sample the free (really tasteless) hot dogs, sip a free cold drink, eventually (maybe) get a free ice cream. You know: Bring the kids!
And then you’re confronted, before you’ve even gotten to the free food table, with a couple of old geezers begging for spare change. Or better.
Plus, by the looks of them, they were METS FANS.
What were they doing down here, outside of Richmond, Virginia?
I mean, if they wanted to beg near the entrance to the Holland Tunnel, well, at least that’s their territory. This here was Virginia. Hundreds of miles from home.
If they’d been Washington Nationals fans…
… or even Orioles fans…
… then maybe we could’ve cut ‘em some slack.
But as it was, I decided that we should just nip this in the bud.
So I sicced Howie on them.
There’s always a polite way to “escort” someone “off the premises.” And if anyone would know, it would be our own Howie. He could be persuasive, and he could be polite. Sometimes he could be both, at the same time.
The idea, though, was to get them to vamoose.
Pronto.
September 24, 2020
After all, now that we were no longer looking for a few good honest loving caring folks to adopt the 3 sheepdog puppies, Maggie really didn’t have anything to do. (We’d planned on her being one of The Team who would interview/grill/vet/interrogate prospective “adopters.” And now her services were no longer needed for that task.)
So, as busy as Allison already was, I went and found her and asked her to help out finding a suitable countertop on which to display copies of Maggie’s cookbook. (The thought of displaying the other guys’ cookbooks, I’ll admit, never crossed her mind, or MINE, for that matter. SHE was the one taking the initiative, after all. If the other guys anted to hawk their products, they could bl---y well do it themselves.)
Well, Allison couldn’t find an unused card table for Maggie, and we didn’t want to steal one of the tables already in use for the free food and drinks (and eventually, the free ice cream). But Allison being Allison, and therefore being ever-resourceful, she did find a couple of big cardboard boxes that had held the paper plates and napkins. And then she went into the brand-new oil-change building (That’s why we were there, after all: It WAS Kenny’s Quick Lube.) and procured an extra-large brand-new painter’s drop cloth, which she then draped over the cardboard boxes, creating a perfect display counter for Maggie’s books.
Maggie was more-than-satisfied with the arrangement, and she trundled off to the Tour Bus to get a few cartons of her book, along with her personal cashbox (so that she could make change for customers) and some non-leaky pens (for doing autographs. Duh.).
Moments later, she was all set up, and a small crowd developed in front of her “booth” almost instantaneously. Maybe she’d given a few copies away, straight away, to sorta “seed” the audience.
Before I knew it, she had more folks in line for her table than the guys giving away hot dogs at the free-food table. (Of course, how many hot dogs can you eat, after the first two?) (Especially the hot dogs Kenny was giving away. I have to say, he might have been a great oil-change business promoter, but he’d sure cheaped out on buying quality hot dogs. The dogs he was giving away tasted like wrapped sawdust-and-baloney.) (Boy, I thought, just wait till the crowd gets a taste of whatever Suzie’s gonna be cooking up.)
And just then Kenny himself walked up to me and said, “You’re not planning on all of your guys setting up shop here in the parking lot, are you?”
Which caught me a bit off-guard. And so I answered, a bit sheepishly, “Uh, no. I don’t think so.” I was almost stuttering. “I mean, nobody else has said anything about wanting to sell their books here.”
“Good,” he responded.
“Is there a problem?” I asked, trying to sound my most innocent.
He shook his head. “No. Not really. I just hadn’t planned on turning this thing into a flea market.”
And I could’ve felt offended by that sort of remark, but I decided to keep playing the innocent for a while longer.
“Well, is Maggie selling a few cookbooks a problem. I mean, she IS a major TV personality… And it kinda goes with Suzie doing this cooking demo… Which she’s doing for free, I think.”
(I couldn’t help emphasizing the fact that Suzie’s cooking demo, which we’d volunteered as an added attraction for Kenny’s new Quick Lube Opening Day, was being provided FOR HIS BENEFIT—TOTALLY FOR FREE.) (So okay: Allison’s cable-TV station was paying for all the food, and the plates and stuff, and whatever. So WE weren’t paying for it, either. But my point was: KENNY wasn’t paying for it, so couldn’t he have been a little more appreciative?)
But then he half-frowned, pointed over to a couple of pipe-smoking gents with baseball caps and sunglasses who’d set up shop at the front of the parking lot, close by where I’d parked the Tour Bus, and said with a shrug, “Yeah. I understand that, and all. But we’re starting to attract panhandlers.”
After all, now that we were no longer looking for a few good honest loving caring folks to adopt the 3 sheepdog puppies, Maggie really didn’t have anything to do. (We’d planned on her being one of The Team who would interview/grill/vet/interrogate prospective “adopters.” And now her services were no longer needed for that task.)
So, as busy as Allison already was, I went and found her and asked her to help out finding a suitable countertop on which to display copies of Maggie’s cookbook. (The thought of displaying the other guys’ cookbooks, I’ll admit, never crossed her mind, or MINE, for that matter. SHE was the one taking the initiative, after all. If the other guys anted to hawk their products, they could bl---y well do it themselves.)
Well, Allison couldn’t find an unused card table for Maggie, and we didn’t want to steal one of the tables already in use for the free food and drinks (and eventually, the free ice cream). But Allison being Allison, and therefore being ever-resourceful, she did find a couple of big cardboard boxes that had held the paper plates and napkins. And then she went into the brand-new oil-change building (That’s why we were there, after all: It WAS Kenny’s Quick Lube.) and procured an extra-large brand-new painter’s drop cloth, which she then draped over the cardboard boxes, creating a perfect display counter for Maggie’s books.
Maggie was more-than-satisfied with the arrangement, and she trundled off to the Tour Bus to get a few cartons of her book, along with her personal cashbox (so that she could make change for customers) and some non-leaky pens (for doing autographs. Duh.).
Moments later, she was all set up, and a small crowd developed in front of her “booth” almost instantaneously. Maybe she’d given a few copies away, straight away, to sorta “seed” the audience.
Before I knew it, she had more folks in line for her table than the guys giving away hot dogs at the free-food table. (Of course, how many hot dogs can you eat, after the first two?) (Especially the hot dogs Kenny was giving away. I have to say, he might have been a great oil-change business promoter, but he’d sure cheaped out on buying quality hot dogs. The dogs he was giving away tasted like wrapped sawdust-and-baloney.) (Boy, I thought, just wait till the crowd gets a taste of whatever Suzie’s gonna be cooking up.)
And just then Kenny himself walked up to me and said, “You’re not planning on all of your guys setting up shop here in the parking lot, are you?”
Which caught me a bit off-guard. And so I answered, a bit sheepishly, “Uh, no. I don’t think so.” I was almost stuttering. “I mean, nobody else has said anything about wanting to sell their books here.”
“Good,” he responded.
“Is there a problem?” I asked, trying to sound my most innocent.
He shook his head. “No. Not really. I just hadn’t planned on turning this thing into a flea market.”
And I could’ve felt offended by that sort of remark, but I decided to keep playing the innocent for a while longer.
“Well, is Maggie selling a few cookbooks a problem. I mean, she IS a major TV personality… And it kinda goes with Suzie doing this cooking demo… Which she’s doing for free, I think.”
(I couldn’t help emphasizing the fact that Suzie’s cooking demo, which we’d volunteered as an added attraction for Kenny’s new Quick Lube Opening Day, was being provided FOR HIS BENEFIT—TOTALLY FOR FREE.) (So okay: Allison’s cable-TV station was paying for all the food, and the plates and stuff, and whatever. So WE weren’t paying for it, either. But my point was: KENNY wasn’t paying for it, so couldn’t he have been a little more appreciative?)
But then he half-frowned, pointed over to a couple of pipe-smoking gents with baseball caps and sunglasses who’d set up shop at the front of the parking lot, close by where I’d parked the Tour Bus, and said with a shrug, “Yeah. I understand that, and all. But we’re starting to attract panhandlers.”
September 23, 2020
Well, we definitely had the crowd mesmerized for a good half-hour. Probably more.
And I think it could’ve gone on for another half-hour, especially if we’d been serving beer.
Which we weren’t.
It’d be kinda weird, after all, to promote free oil changes and car washes and then simultaneously getting the car owners sloshed. Not the sort of thing that’d go over well with law enforcement, in these “Drink Responsibly” times.
And then…
… As if I didn’t have enough stuff to keep an eye on, Maggie came up to me and (I’ll admit very politely) asked me if I could find a card table.
“Why?” was, of course, my reaction.
And her answer was straight-forward and immediate: She wanted to set up a “mini-booth” to sell her cookbooks.
That’s what “The Tour” was all about, right? Promoting our TV shows and selling our (the guys’) cookbooks?
So Maggie thought that, rather than simply stand around and watch Suzie’s cooking demonstration, she’d take the opportunity to hawk a few books.
You have to realize that, from her standpoint, there’s more to her cookbooks than just introducing folks to the joys of cooking. Maggie’s specialty, after all, is “Leftovers.” Or, as she puts it, “Recycling.” So when she teaches someone how to make use of someone else’s refuse, she’s doing that person a favor by affording them a basically-free meal. And she’s helping the planet by reducing the amount of waste that overflows our landfills.
So… in Maggie’s mind, she’s performing a public service.
And, as in the famous fable’s lesson “Give a man a fish… Teach a man to fish…” by teaching folks how to conserve our planet’s resources, she’s performing a public service that’s ongoing.
Sorta like she’s on a mission from God. (Without trying to be blasphemous. More like “The Blues Brothers,” only from an environmental perspective.)
So, the bottom line was:
If we’d still been planning to place the 3 sheepdog puppies with new adoptive families, Maggie had been scheduled to interview prospective “new parents.” (Along with Mona Lassie and me, I think. I don’t really remember, but I think I was supposed to be one of the interviewers… Because I was “The Manager,” I guess, or maybe because I always look like the responsible one… I do remember that it was going to be 3 people… And it doesn’t matter now, anyway, because the puppies were staying with us… Assuming we didn’t lose them again, and they didn’t run away… again.)
So Maggie had nothing better to do, while Suzie’s cooking demo was going on, so she wanted to sell some books.
All in the name of “public service.”
So I needed to find a card table or something, for her to set up shop.
Sounded reasonable.
Well, we definitely had the crowd mesmerized for a good half-hour. Probably more.
And I think it could’ve gone on for another half-hour, especially if we’d been serving beer.
Which we weren’t.
It’d be kinda weird, after all, to promote free oil changes and car washes and then simultaneously getting the car owners sloshed. Not the sort of thing that’d go over well with law enforcement, in these “Drink Responsibly” times.
And then…
… As if I didn’t have enough stuff to keep an eye on, Maggie came up to me and (I’ll admit very politely) asked me if I could find a card table.
“Why?” was, of course, my reaction.
And her answer was straight-forward and immediate: She wanted to set up a “mini-booth” to sell her cookbooks.
That’s what “The Tour” was all about, right? Promoting our TV shows and selling our (the guys’) cookbooks?
So Maggie thought that, rather than simply stand around and watch Suzie’s cooking demonstration, she’d take the opportunity to hawk a few books.
You have to realize that, from her standpoint, there’s more to her cookbooks than just introducing folks to the joys of cooking. Maggie’s specialty, after all, is “Leftovers.” Or, as she puts it, “Recycling.” So when she teaches someone how to make use of someone else’s refuse, she’s doing that person a favor by affording them a basically-free meal. And she’s helping the planet by reducing the amount of waste that overflows our landfills.
So… in Maggie’s mind, she’s performing a public service.
And, as in the famous fable’s lesson “Give a man a fish… Teach a man to fish…” by teaching folks how to conserve our planet’s resources, she’s performing a public service that’s ongoing.
Sorta like she’s on a mission from God. (Without trying to be blasphemous. More like “The Blues Brothers,” only from an environmental perspective.)
So, the bottom line was:
If we’d still been planning to place the 3 sheepdog puppies with new adoptive families, Maggie had been scheduled to interview prospective “new parents.” (Along with Mona Lassie and me, I think. I don’t really remember, but I think I was supposed to be one of the interviewers… Because I was “The Manager,” I guess, or maybe because I always look like the responsible one… I do remember that it was going to be 3 people… And it doesn’t matter now, anyway, because the puppies were staying with us… Assuming we didn’t lose them again, and they didn’t run away… again.)
So Maggie had nothing better to do, while Suzie’s cooking demo was going on, so she wanted to sell some books.
All in the name of “public service.”
So I needed to find a card table or something, for her to set up shop.
Sounded reasonable.
September 22, 2020
But not for long.
Within seconds of my realizing that the 3 adorable youngsters were—once again—unaccounted for, Kenny showed up toting all three of them in of a very large bucket.
“They’ve been hanging around the car wash,” he explained, not seeming angry. More like just trying to keep his Opening day festivities under control. “And I know a bit about dogs myself, so I understand that they love car washes.”
He looked down at the sheepish-looking sheepdogs and smiled. “And I know they were trying to help out, but I was worried that they were running around under the wheels and stuff.”
I nodded. While we all know that playful young puppies are bound to get “underfoot” at times, we can’t have them getting under the WHEELS at a car wash. No one wants a squished doggy. That would definitely ruin an otherwise fun and rewarding day.
Speaking of which: We had to get this cooking demo going!
But first, I had to find Mona Lassie, and get her to take Sherman, Tyrone, and Claire off my hands. (Maybe she could find them a fire engine to play on, I thought. You’d think a fire engine would show up at a Kenny’s Quick Lube Opening Day. Or maybe she could just take them over to where the free food tables were.)
And then I hustled back over to “The Stage.” The 4-by-8 sheets of plywood plopped down on some old 55-gallon oil drums that Suzie was going to use for her presentation.
Which she couldn’t even get started with, until the grocery delivery truck showed up with all the food. And plates, napkins, whatever else she’d ordered.
I gave her a “Where is it?” look, and she returned it with a “I have no idea” shrug.
Still, the show must go on.
And Kenny, who was turning out to be quite the experienced showman himself, stepped into the void.
He had another “act” in his back pocket that he trundled “onstage” to stall for a few minutes.
It turned out, it was his brother-in-law and a couple of his buddies, who liked to dress up and do this sorta tongue-in-cheek skit.
I guess it went over big at beer festivals, or sausage festivals, maybe polka festivals. And on the Eastern seaboard, there’d be plenty of those over the summer and fall weekend-event calendar.
The guys were already dressed and ready to go, and it seemed like they were prepared for this to last for hours, if need be. (At some point, I assumed that they’d be inviting volunteers—challengers—up “onstage” as well.)
So picture this:
In the newly-paved parking lot of the new Kenny’s Quick Lube…
… on a beautiful, warm Saturday…
… Bavarian Pinkie Wrestling!
But not for long.
Within seconds of my realizing that the 3 adorable youngsters were—once again—unaccounted for, Kenny showed up toting all three of them in of a very large bucket.
“They’ve been hanging around the car wash,” he explained, not seeming angry. More like just trying to keep his Opening day festivities under control. “And I know a bit about dogs myself, so I understand that they love car washes.”
He looked down at the sheepish-looking sheepdogs and smiled. “And I know they were trying to help out, but I was worried that they were running around under the wheels and stuff.”
I nodded. While we all know that playful young puppies are bound to get “underfoot” at times, we can’t have them getting under the WHEELS at a car wash. No one wants a squished doggy. That would definitely ruin an otherwise fun and rewarding day.
Speaking of which: We had to get this cooking demo going!
But first, I had to find Mona Lassie, and get her to take Sherman, Tyrone, and Claire off my hands. (Maybe she could find them a fire engine to play on, I thought. You’d think a fire engine would show up at a Kenny’s Quick Lube Opening Day. Or maybe she could just take them over to where the free food tables were.)
And then I hustled back over to “The Stage.” The 4-by-8 sheets of plywood plopped down on some old 55-gallon oil drums that Suzie was going to use for her presentation.
Which she couldn’t even get started with, until the grocery delivery truck showed up with all the food. And plates, napkins, whatever else she’d ordered.
I gave her a “Where is it?” look, and she returned it with a “I have no idea” shrug.
Still, the show must go on.
And Kenny, who was turning out to be quite the experienced showman himself, stepped into the void.
He had another “act” in his back pocket that he trundled “onstage” to stall for a few minutes.
It turned out, it was his brother-in-law and a couple of his buddies, who liked to dress up and do this sorta tongue-in-cheek skit.
I guess it went over big at beer festivals, or sausage festivals, maybe polka festivals. And on the Eastern seaboard, there’d be plenty of those over the summer and fall weekend-event calendar.
The guys were already dressed and ready to go, and it seemed like they were prepared for this to last for hours, if need be. (At some point, I assumed that they’d be inviting volunteers—challengers—up “onstage” as well.)
So picture this:
In the newly-paved parking lot of the new Kenny’s Quick Lube…
… on a beautiful, warm Saturday…
… Bavarian Pinkie Wrestling!
September 21, 2020
I’d almost forgotten, with all the people milling around the Kenny’s Quick Lube parking lot, that the original idea of Suzie doing a cooking demo that day was to “place” the 3 sheepdog puppies with new loving families. (I think we’d always assumed that that would be: families, plural. As much as you’d like to find a single home for 3 young siblings, it would’ve been something of a miracle to have found that sort of amazing family. I mean, 3 sheepdogs of any size would be a handful.)
The original idea had come mostly from Deputy Rick’s wife Allison and our own Mona Lassie, who of course is a sheepdog herself. And it was accepted almost immediately by the rest of our “Team.” We were a traveling band of showmen/chefs/self-centered divas, on a nationwide Tour with no pre-planned appearances and no notion of where we would be tomorrow, much less next week or next month. We were, like it or not, a modern-day version of “The Circus,” and as such, we were no place 3 sheepdog puppies should be growing up. So the idea that we find them proper homes seemed totally logical.
The sheepdogs themselves, of course, didn’t see it that way. At all.
Sherman, Tyrone, and Claire (whom I personally could hardly tell apart, but that was my fault) wouldn’t have gone AWOL if they’d agreed.
Just think: They’d been willing to hide out in a dark, smelly, trash-strewn Tour Bus ALL BY THEMSELVES for the better part of a full day…
… and had gone without eating (I guess) the whole time…
… CAN YOU IMAGINE 3 DOGS—OF ANY AGE—FORSAKING A FULL DAY OF FOOD…
… FOR ANY REASON?
Well, they had. Because they didn’t want to be given away. As much as their new parents might’ve been the most people in the whole world, Sherman, Tyrone, and Claire wanted to stay together. For better or for worse.
Even if they had to stay with us.
Which they’d clearly been trying to do.
So we finally relented, and told them that they could stay.
And now where were they?
I was standing in the Kenny’s Quick Lube parking lot, on a lovely Saturday morning, and Suzie’s demonstration “stage” had been erected, and the tech guys from Allison’s cable-TV station had run electricity for her “Big Show” wok and set up a simple 2-speaker sound system for her microphone. The grocery-store delivery folks hadn’t shown up, but I assumed that they were on their way. And there was a good-sized good-natured crowd on hand, apparently looking forward to some just-cooked snacks to complement the free food and free soda pop already available. And Kenny himself seemed pretty plased with how things were going.
So I was standing there, as I said, taking in the scene, and reflecting on how we (The Team and I) had decided that the sheepdog adoption scheme wasn’t going to happen…
… and then I realized, looking around and around the parking lot…
… that we’d lost them again.
I’d almost forgotten, with all the people milling around the Kenny’s Quick Lube parking lot, that the original idea of Suzie doing a cooking demo that day was to “place” the 3 sheepdog puppies with new loving families. (I think we’d always assumed that that would be: families, plural. As much as you’d like to find a single home for 3 young siblings, it would’ve been something of a miracle to have found that sort of amazing family. I mean, 3 sheepdogs of any size would be a handful.)
The original idea had come mostly from Deputy Rick’s wife Allison and our own Mona Lassie, who of course is a sheepdog herself. And it was accepted almost immediately by the rest of our “Team.” We were a traveling band of showmen/chefs/self-centered divas, on a nationwide Tour with no pre-planned appearances and no notion of where we would be tomorrow, much less next week or next month. We were, like it or not, a modern-day version of “The Circus,” and as such, we were no place 3 sheepdog puppies should be growing up. So the idea that we find them proper homes seemed totally logical.
The sheepdogs themselves, of course, didn’t see it that way. At all.
Sherman, Tyrone, and Claire (whom I personally could hardly tell apart, but that was my fault) wouldn’t have gone AWOL if they’d agreed.
Just think: They’d been willing to hide out in a dark, smelly, trash-strewn Tour Bus ALL BY THEMSELVES for the better part of a full day…
… and had gone without eating (I guess) the whole time…
… CAN YOU IMAGINE 3 DOGS—OF ANY AGE—FORSAKING A FULL DAY OF FOOD…
… FOR ANY REASON?
Well, they had. Because they didn’t want to be given away. As much as their new parents might’ve been the most people in the whole world, Sherman, Tyrone, and Claire wanted to stay together. For better or for worse.
Even if they had to stay with us.
Which they’d clearly been trying to do.
So we finally relented, and told them that they could stay.
And now where were they?
I was standing in the Kenny’s Quick Lube parking lot, on a lovely Saturday morning, and Suzie’s demonstration “stage” had been erected, and the tech guys from Allison’s cable-TV station had run electricity for her “Big Show” wok and set up a simple 2-speaker sound system for her microphone. The grocery-store delivery folks hadn’t shown up, but I assumed that they were on their way. And there was a good-sized good-natured crowd on hand, apparently looking forward to some just-cooked snacks to complement the free food and free soda pop already available. And Kenny himself seemed pretty plased with how things were going.
So I was standing there, as I said, taking in the scene, and reflecting on how we (The Team and I) had decided that the sheepdog adoption scheme wasn’t going to happen…
… and then I realized, looking around and around the parking lot…
… that we’d lost them again.
September 18, 2020
Definitely a once-in-a-lifetime sight! (You just can’t make stuff like this up.)
Down the road came a veritable sea of ducks, waddling about as fast as ducks can go. Almost like they were marching to the sea, but of course the only big body of water nearby was the Rappahannock River. Maybe they were on their way to a regatta.
At least they didn’t turn into the Kenny’s Quick Lube parking lot. THAT would’ve created some chaos.
Which we didn’t need. What we needed was to find Allison, and get this show set up.
Just behind the last wave of ducks, the delivery truck from the grocery store Suzie, Butch, and I had visited the day before pulled in. I motioned it over to a semi-secluded corner of the parking lot, hoping that it would be close enough to the building that we could string a power line to it.
And just then—as if like magic—Allison materialized…
… and from then on, I knew everything was going to be all right.
Allison just has that presence about her. She completely EXUDES confidence. Control. A sense of calm.
And she nodded at the grocery truck and said, “Sure. This’ll work.”
(And I think Suzie straight-off must’ve thought: “If Allison says this’ll work, then I’ve got nothing to worry about.” Of course, Suzie’s always been such a strong self-promoter that I doubt she ever worries about anything, anyway.)
Allison had already briefed her camera crew on how she wanted the live-remote event to play out, and she’d positioned them to take in all of the festivities Kenny’s Quick Lube had on offer—which up to this point included the free-food and free-drinks tables, the free car washes (sort of), and the free oil changes.
What was going to be the piece-de-resistance of the whole affair, though, was going to be Suzie’s outdoor cooking demo. And I still had no idea what it was going to entail.
But Suzie is a true pro, so I hadn’t even given the question much thought.
First, we had to get a pseudo-stage set up, which we did by plopping a bunch of 4-by-8 sheets of plywood down on some 55-gallon oil drums. (I guess one thing you’d always have plenty of, at an oil-change place, would be old oil drums.) Then we had to run a couple of power cords from inside the building out to “Suzie’s stage,” one for her cooking wok and one for her microphone. (We “hired” a few teenagers to duck-tape the cords to the asphalt, so people wouldn’t trip over them and inadvertently disconnect them.)
And yes: Apparently, this was going to be one of Suzie’s famous “one-wok wonder” presentations. It made sense logistically, of course, because she didn’t have a standard stovetop or oven or broiler or smoker at hand up there on the rickety 4-by-8 sheets of plywood. And operationally, having one “platform” would make it easier for her audience to focus on what she was doing step-by-step, one thing after another, without getting distracted.
Plus, I had to admit, Suzie almost didn’t need to cook anything. She was that good. Over the years, I’ve sometimes thought that all she had to do was give an audience that wonderful big SMILE of hers, and she’d be a hit. The cooking was almost an afterthought.
But she WAS going to cook something. That’s why we were here.
As she herself mentions in the “Back Paw” section of her book, “My Aw Pah’s (grandmother’s) biggest lesson to me might have been: ‘The best way to make new friends is to cook them a meal!’”
So Suzie was going to cook us a meal! No doubt about it!
(But what were all the popsicle sticks for?)
Definitely a once-in-a-lifetime sight! (You just can’t make stuff like this up.)
Down the road came a veritable sea of ducks, waddling about as fast as ducks can go. Almost like they were marching to the sea, but of course the only big body of water nearby was the Rappahannock River. Maybe they were on their way to a regatta.
At least they didn’t turn into the Kenny’s Quick Lube parking lot. THAT would’ve created some chaos.
Which we didn’t need. What we needed was to find Allison, and get this show set up.
Just behind the last wave of ducks, the delivery truck from the grocery store Suzie, Butch, and I had visited the day before pulled in. I motioned it over to a semi-secluded corner of the parking lot, hoping that it would be close enough to the building that we could string a power line to it.
And just then—as if like magic—Allison materialized…
… and from then on, I knew everything was going to be all right.
Allison just has that presence about her. She completely EXUDES confidence. Control. A sense of calm.
And she nodded at the grocery truck and said, “Sure. This’ll work.”
(And I think Suzie straight-off must’ve thought: “If Allison says this’ll work, then I’ve got nothing to worry about.” Of course, Suzie’s always been such a strong self-promoter that I doubt she ever worries about anything, anyway.)
Allison had already briefed her camera crew on how she wanted the live-remote event to play out, and she’d positioned them to take in all of the festivities Kenny’s Quick Lube had on offer—which up to this point included the free-food and free-drinks tables, the free car washes (sort of), and the free oil changes.
What was going to be the piece-de-resistance of the whole affair, though, was going to be Suzie’s outdoor cooking demo. And I still had no idea what it was going to entail.
But Suzie is a true pro, so I hadn’t even given the question much thought.
First, we had to get a pseudo-stage set up, which we did by plopping a bunch of 4-by-8 sheets of plywood down on some 55-gallon oil drums. (I guess one thing you’d always have plenty of, at an oil-change place, would be old oil drums.) Then we had to run a couple of power cords from inside the building out to “Suzie’s stage,” one for her cooking wok and one for her microphone. (We “hired” a few teenagers to duck-tape the cords to the asphalt, so people wouldn’t trip over them and inadvertently disconnect them.)
And yes: Apparently, this was going to be one of Suzie’s famous “one-wok wonder” presentations. It made sense logistically, of course, because she didn’t have a standard stovetop or oven or broiler or smoker at hand up there on the rickety 4-by-8 sheets of plywood. And operationally, having one “platform” would make it easier for her audience to focus on what she was doing step-by-step, one thing after another, without getting distracted.
Plus, I had to admit, Suzie almost didn’t need to cook anything. She was that good. Over the years, I’ve sometimes thought that all she had to do was give an audience that wonderful big SMILE of hers, and she’d be a hit. The cooking was almost an afterthought.
But she WAS going to cook something. That’s why we were here.
As she herself mentions in the “Back Paw” section of her book, “My Aw Pah’s (grandmother’s) biggest lesson to me might have been: ‘The best way to make new friends is to cook them a meal!’”
So Suzie was going to cook us a meal! No doubt about it!
(But what were all the popsicle sticks for?)
September 17, 2020
I’m also an unusually lucky guy.
Because before the two witches—I mean, the two “attendees”— could challenge me on what was obviously a “misrepresentation, our own Suzie Snow Peas came trotting up to me. And getting right in my face (which meant that the 2 ladies got pushed aside, somewhat), she said, “We’ve gotta get going on my demo. The grocery delivery guys are gonna be here any minute.”
And she was perfectly correct.
Now that Allison had arrived, it was time to ask her where we were supposed to set up. Hopefully there’d be some sort of stage. We definitely needed electricity, and a sound system. (Suzie does NOT have the voice of a Roman orator.)
And of course, I have come to experience—way too often—that being a lucky guy only goes so far. Because my luck (as most folks’ luck) generally runs out WAY too early.
In this case, before I could even re-locate where Allison and her crew had gotten themselves to, I inadvertently turned my gaze back to the highway, and there (to my great surprise) I saw a sight that I will not soon forget.
I could only hope that Suzie hadn’t been planning on doing a cooking demo featuring “Peking Duck.”
I’m also an unusually lucky guy.
Because before the two witches—I mean, the two “attendees”— could challenge me on what was obviously a “misrepresentation, our own Suzie Snow Peas came trotting up to me. And getting right in my face (which meant that the 2 ladies got pushed aside, somewhat), she said, “We’ve gotta get going on my demo. The grocery delivery guys are gonna be here any minute.”
And she was perfectly correct.
Now that Allison had arrived, it was time to ask her where we were supposed to set up. Hopefully there’d be some sort of stage. We definitely needed electricity, and a sound system. (Suzie does NOT have the voice of a Roman orator.)
And of course, I have come to experience—way too often—that being a lucky guy only goes so far. Because my luck (as most folks’ luck) generally runs out WAY too early.
In this case, before I could even re-locate where Allison and her crew had gotten themselves to, I inadvertently turned my gaze back to the highway, and there (to my great surprise) I saw a sight that I will not soon forget.
I could only hope that Suzie hadn’t been planning on doing a cooking demo featuring “Peking Duck.”
September 16, 2020
Wow.
What do you say to THAT? (I mean: the combo: The 2 witches, and the 2 witches’ question?)
Well, I couldn’t solve it with dog biscuits, like Allison had with the 2 dozen dogs.
Yes, I HAD said something about cotton candy. (Which I, personally, enjoy as much as the next fellow.) Which I now, quite obviously, regretted.
But I HAD said it, so now what was I gonna do?
Well, I AM KNOWN, in certain circles, for being able to think fast. And this was gonna have to be one of those times.
So I looked these two ladies straight in the face (which in itself was a feat, if you ask me) and said (with a straight face), “No. I said ‘Everything’s fine and dandy!’”
And I just kept looking at them, no frown, no smile.
(Just “telling it like it is.”)
I mean, look at me: Is this the face of a trustworthy guy, or what?
Wow.
What do you say to THAT? (I mean: the combo: The 2 witches, and the 2 witches’ question?)
Well, I couldn’t solve it with dog biscuits, like Allison had with the 2 dozen dogs.
Yes, I HAD said something about cotton candy. (Which I, personally, enjoy as much as the next fellow.) Which I now, quite obviously, regretted.
But I HAD said it, so now what was I gonna do?
Well, I AM KNOWN, in certain circles, for being able to think fast. And this was gonna have to be one of those times.
So I looked these two ladies straight in the face (which in itself was a feat, if you ask me) and said (with a straight face), “No. I said ‘Everything’s fine and dandy!’”
And I just kept looking at them, no frown, no smile.
(Just “telling it like it is.”)
I mean, look at me: Is this the face of a trustworthy guy, or what?
September 15, 2020
But of course, the way things go on this wonderful nationwide “Tour” of ours, something REALLY UGLY usually turns up to spoil everything. Or at least to add a slight bummer/dose of reality to things, right when you’ve confronted a problem and think that you’ve solved it.
And so, of course, just as I was marveling at Allison’s dog biscuit throwing, and wondering what tricks she still had up her sleeve…
And as I was simultaneously marveling at how pretty she is…
… and how lucky Deputy Rick is to have such an amazing wife…
… I heard my name being called by someone behind me, there in the brand-new Kenny’s Quick Lube parking lot.
And I didn’t recognize the voice—and I certainly don’t know many folks, personally, in the Richmond, Virginia, area. But it clearly, from the tone, had a question to ask me.
So I turned around (innocently enough), but in the split-seconds that it took to spin around, my mind started processing several pieces of information:
MAYBE SISTERS.
Who were about as far from the beauty of the fair Allison as I’D ever wanta get…
… Standing right there, in the brand-new Kenny’s Quick Lube parking lot…
… Looking at me.
And then one of them, the one on the left (if I recall correctly, not that it really matters), said to me (innocently enough)…
… “Did you say something about cotton candy?”
But of course, the way things go on this wonderful nationwide “Tour” of ours, something REALLY UGLY usually turns up to spoil everything. Or at least to add a slight bummer/dose of reality to things, right when you’ve confronted a problem and think that you’ve solved it.
And so, of course, just as I was marveling at Allison’s dog biscuit throwing, and wondering what tricks she still had up her sleeve…
And as I was simultaneously marveling at how pretty she is…
… and how lucky Deputy Rick is to have such an amazing wife…
… I heard my name being called by someone behind me, there in the brand-new Kenny’s Quick Lube parking lot.
And I didn’t recognize the voice—and I certainly don’t know many folks, personally, in the Richmond, Virginia, area. But it clearly, from the tone, had a question to ask me.
So I turned around (innocently enough), but in the split-seconds that it took to spin around, my mind started processing several pieces of information:
- The voice hadn’t really called out my name.
- The voice had called out, “Young man!”
- And I’m not really in the “young man” category.
- Anymore.
- I mean, once upon a time, sure.
- But not so much now.
- So if someone was actually intending ME to qualify as a young man…
- THAT PERSON must really be up there, age-wise.
- And come to think of it (my brain whirred on), the voice DID sound kinda old.
- I mean, like it came out of someone kinda old.
- Kinda old and creaky.
MAYBE SISTERS.
Who were about as far from the beauty of the fair Allison as I’D ever wanta get…
… Standing right there, in the brand-new Kenny’s Quick Lube parking lot…
… Looking at me.
And then one of them, the one on the left (if I recall correctly, not that it really matters), said to me (innocently enough)…
… “Did you say something about cotton candy?”
September 14, 2020
Granted, that’s not a real good picture of her. But it’d give you a bit of an idea. She’s a very “together” person.
Using that photo, though, DID remind me of a photo and accompanying footnote in “Professor” Peter Schikele’s terrificly funny bio of P.D.Q. Bach. (View on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Definitive-Biography-of-P-D-Q-Bach/dp/B001V8D6YM/ref=sr_1_3?dchild=1&keywords=p.d.q.+bach&qid=1599849368&s=books&sr=1-3.)
Granted, that’s not a real good picture of her. But it’d give you a bit of an idea. She’s a very “together” person.
Using that photo, though, DID remind me of a photo and accompanying footnote in “Professor” Peter Schikele’s terrificly funny bio of P.D.Q. Bach. (View on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Definitive-Biography-of-P-D-Q-Bach/dp/B001V8D6YM/ref=sr_1_3?dchild=1&keywords=p.d.q.+bach&qid=1599849368&s=books&sr=1-3.)
Anyway, somewhere in the “Appendices” of this marvelous book, he shows an 18th-century woodcut of a really pretty young woman. With a caption directly below the woodcut that reads, simply, “Anna Magdalena Bach.”
But then…
… of course there’s a “But then…”
… and there’s a footnote.
Which says something to the effect that: “No known portrait of Anna Magdelena Bach, Johann Sebastian Bach’s second wife, exists. But if he was lucky, she might have looked something like this.”
This would sorta be the equivalent of my setting a friend up with a blind date, and saying, “I don’t have a real picture of her in my phone, but she kinda resembles HER.”
And pointing to a picture that I DO have in my phone…
… which is this one:
But then…
… of course there’s a “But then…”
… and there’s a footnote.
Which says something to the effect that: “No known portrait of Anna Magdelena Bach, Johann Sebastian Bach’s second wife, exists. But if he was lucky, she might have looked something like this.”
This would sorta be the equivalent of my setting a friend up with a blind date, and saying, “I don’t have a real picture of her in my phone, but she kinda resembles HER.”
And pointing to a picture that I DO have in my phone…
… which is this one:
September 11, 2020
I didn’t have any cotton candy, of course. Much less enough to satisfy a couple dozen dogs… and maybe all those road-racing bicyclists.
And you wouldn’t think that a whole pack of cycling racers would suddenly decide to take a hard-left detour into a Quick Lube parking lot, all for a chance to grab a cone-ful of cotton candy. But that’s what happened.
And their sudden appearance didn’t seem to bother Kenny. Ever the promoter, he latched onto the guy with the yellow jersey, the supposed front-runner, and started dragging him over to the free-food table. Maybe, just maybe, he must’ve figured, he could turn this into a Nathan’s-Famous-type hotdog-eating contest. All these panting bicyclists must be hungry, right?
Well, most of them hopped off their bikes and started chugging down the free sugary drinks, instead. After which they sorta naturally emigrated over to the ooil-changing bays and started admiring the Miss America types in the form-fitting coveralls who were (supposedly) performing the free Opening-Day oil changes.
And one amazing thing, at least if you’ve never attended a road-racing bicycle event: Somehow, with no obvious place to lean all their expensive road bikes, the racers managed to create a circle with all the bikes leaning against—and supporting—each other. I guess that’s a natural thing for cyclists to do, but I’d never seen it before.
And I couldn’t imagine how delicately they’d have to pry the bikes apart—one after another—when it was time for them to leave. But then, I figured, I’d probably be too busy elsewhere to care. So good luck to them, whenever.
Meanwhile…
I still didn’t have any cotton candy.
And the dogs were headed my way.
So I had to think of something… fast.
Luckily (and it’s amazing how often, over the course of this nationwide “Tour,” I could write the word “Luckily…”), just as the first of the slavering dogs was pacing up to me, into the parking lot came Deputy Rick’s wife Allison, the Richmond-area cable TV station manager, in her easily identifiable live-remote TV station uplink van, along with 2 supporting pickup trucks.
Now if there’s one thing, besides a fire truck and a UPS truck, that will instantly grab your average American dog’s attention, it’s a live-remote TV van.
So before I had to start blubbering some ultra-lame excuse about why there really wasn’t any cotton candy, that I’d just shouted that in a moment of panic (and/or momentary mental illness), that I’d shouted that out simply to get them all off of the highway, where they could’ve been killed (and where they were blocking the entry to Kenny’s parking lot), before I could even BEGIN to start peddling one excuse after another, for fear of being torn to shreds by a couple dozen disappointed dogs…
… before ANYTHING ELSE…
… they’d all spun 90 degrees and began surrounding the TV van. Covering any-and-every available door. They were like a canine SWAT team. “Come out with your hands in the air. We’ve got you surrounded.”
Well, if you thought that maybe this situation wasn’t gonna work out too well, you haven’t met Allison.
I’d only met her once myself, but very quickly I learned: She’s not only one of those take-charge-without-anyone-asking. but she’s also one of those rare take-charge-and-keep-everybody-happy types. (She didn’t get to be station manager at her Richmond cable-TV station for nothing.)
So the minute she realized that she was surrounded by a rather large pack of dogs, I could see through her passenger’s-side window that she’d come prepared.
Because before the dogs’ barking had even begun to reach fever pitch, she rolled down her window…
… and started throwing THE ABSOLUTE BIGGEST DOG BISCUITS I’VE EVER SEEN out the window…
… a good 50 feet out…
… and a few handfuls over the top of the van and onto the pavement on the driver’s side…
… and another few handfuls way back behind the van…
… and pretty soon, every single one of the dogs was scurrying around the parking lot, scooping up the enormous (almost designer-type) dog biscuits…
… and sniffing around for any they might’ve missed…
It was sorta like an Easter Sunday Easter Egg hunt, only for dogs.
They kept searching…
… and searching…
… and prowling around…
… noses to the ground…
… determined to not miss “That Last Biscuit”…
… that before we knew it, the entire pack of potentially very angry dogs had been immobilized. “Pacified.” “Rendered harmless.”
And that was only the beginning of Allison’s amazing magic.
I didn’t have any cotton candy, of course. Much less enough to satisfy a couple dozen dogs… and maybe all those road-racing bicyclists.
And you wouldn’t think that a whole pack of cycling racers would suddenly decide to take a hard-left detour into a Quick Lube parking lot, all for a chance to grab a cone-ful of cotton candy. But that’s what happened.
And their sudden appearance didn’t seem to bother Kenny. Ever the promoter, he latched onto the guy with the yellow jersey, the supposed front-runner, and started dragging him over to the free-food table. Maybe, just maybe, he must’ve figured, he could turn this into a Nathan’s-Famous-type hotdog-eating contest. All these panting bicyclists must be hungry, right?
Well, most of them hopped off their bikes and started chugging down the free sugary drinks, instead. After which they sorta naturally emigrated over to the ooil-changing bays and started admiring the Miss America types in the form-fitting coveralls who were (supposedly) performing the free Opening-Day oil changes.
And one amazing thing, at least if you’ve never attended a road-racing bicycle event: Somehow, with no obvious place to lean all their expensive road bikes, the racers managed to create a circle with all the bikes leaning against—and supporting—each other. I guess that’s a natural thing for cyclists to do, but I’d never seen it before.
And I couldn’t imagine how delicately they’d have to pry the bikes apart—one after another—when it was time for them to leave. But then, I figured, I’d probably be too busy elsewhere to care. So good luck to them, whenever.
Meanwhile…
I still didn’t have any cotton candy.
And the dogs were headed my way.
So I had to think of something… fast.
Luckily (and it’s amazing how often, over the course of this nationwide “Tour,” I could write the word “Luckily…”), just as the first of the slavering dogs was pacing up to me, into the parking lot came Deputy Rick’s wife Allison, the Richmond-area cable TV station manager, in her easily identifiable live-remote TV station uplink van, along with 2 supporting pickup trucks.
Now if there’s one thing, besides a fire truck and a UPS truck, that will instantly grab your average American dog’s attention, it’s a live-remote TV van.
So before I had to start blubbering some ultra-lame excuse about why there really wasn’t any cotton candy, that I’d just shouted that in a moment of panic (and/or momentary mental illness), that I’d shouted that out simply to get them all off of the highway, where they could’ve been killed (and where they were blocking the entry to Kenny’s parking lot), before I could even BEGIN to start peddling one excuse after another, for fear of being torn to shreds by a couple dozen disappointed dogs…
… before ANYTHING ELSE…
… they’d all spun 90 degrees and began surrounding the TV van. Covering any-and-every available door. They were like a canine SWAT team. “Come out with your hands in the air. We’ve got you surrounded.”
Well, if you thought that maybe this situation wasn’t gonna work out too well, you haven’t met Allison.
I’d only met her once myself, but very quickly I learned: She’s not only one of those take-charge-without-anyone-asking. but she’s also one of those rare take-charge-and-keep-everybody-happy types. (She didn’t get to be station manager at her Richmond cable-TV station for nothing.)
So the minute she realized that she was surrounded by a rather large pack of dogs, I could see through her passenger’s-side window that she’d come prepared.
Because before the dogs’ barking had even begun to reach fever pitch, she rolled down her window…
… and started throwing THE ABSOLUTE BIGGEST DOG BISCUITS I’VE EVER SEEN out the window…
… a good 50 feet out…
… and a few handfuls over the top of the van and onto the pavement on the driver’s side…
… and another few handfuls way back behind the van…
… and pretty soon, every single one of the dogs was scurrying around the parking lot, scooping up the enormous (almost designer-type) dog biscuits…
… and sniffing around for any they might’ve missed…
It was sorta like an Easter Sunday Easter Egg hunt, only for dogs.
They kept searching…
… and searching…
… and prowling around…
… noses to the ground…
… determined to not miss “That Last Biscuit”…
… that before we knew it, the entire pack of potentially very angry dogs had been immobilized. “Pacified.” “Rendered harmless.”
And that was only the beginning of Allison’s amazing magic.
September 10, 2020
I couldn’t just start yelling “Save the chickens!”
Nobody would have any idea what I was talking about.
(And then they’d be calling a loony-bin wagon instead of 911, and they’d be carting ME off, not a dismembered San Diego Chicken.)
So I did the next best thing.
My first thought was: I could yell something like “Free chili!”
Because I know that my guys absolutely LOVE chili. Any chili. Especially any chili made by OUR OWN Chef Butch Waddles.
I know: His cookbook, for which he is justly famous, is about barbecue. And he certainly knows his stuff, when it comes to barbecue.
But he also knows chili. So when he cooks up a cauldron (or two) of chili, my guys are sure to clamber ‘round.
And usually someone’s more than willing to bake up some super-sweet cornbread, to go with it.
But there’s one thing that “my guys” love even more than chili.
So that’s what I decided on.
I waited a few seconds, until the pack of road-racing cyclists AND the San Diego Chicken lookalikes were approaching the new Kenny’s Quick Lube parking, and coming just-abreast of where I’d parked the Tour Bus broadside, with the “REAL DOGS COOK!” sign emblazoned on the side facing the road, when I started yelling out…
… “COTTON CANDY!” “FREE COTTON CANDY!”
Boy, that stopped them all, dead in their tracks. (Some of the cyclists actually crashed into each other, trying to stop and swerve out of each other’s way, as they carned their necks in my direction. I felt a little sheepish, causing the mini-pile-up, but sometimes you just hafta do what you hafta do.)
I think that the folks who were already milling around the parking lot, enjoying the free-food table and the free-drinks table, getting their cars washed or their oil changed, ogling the pretty girl “lube techs” or just shooting the breeze about what a fun event this was turning out to be—I think that those folks hadn’t even heard me or heard what exactly I was yelling out.
But the folks in that bicycle pack, and the San Diego Chicken impersonators, and most definitely that very large pack of snarling dogs that had been chasing them—THEY’D certainly heard what I’d been yelling.
“FREE COTTON CANDY”
Because they all—to a man—executed near-perfect left-hand turns and barreled full-blast into that Kenny’s Quick Lube parking lot.
Anybody trying to train a marching band would’ve been proud of that precision left-hand turn.
I’ve never been to a greyhound race, but I imagine that they look sorta like that when they round the final turn and head for the finish line. Tight.
I couldn’t just start yelling “Save the chickens!”
Nobody would have any idea what I was talking about.
(And then they’d be calling a loony-bin wagon instead of 911, and they’d be carting ME off, not a dismembered San Diego Chicken.)
So I did the next best thing.
My first thought was: I could yell something like “Free chili!”
Because I know that my guys absolutely LOVE chili. Any chili. Especially any chili made by OUR OWN Chef Butch Waddles.
I know: His cookbook, for which he is justly famous, is about barbecue. And he certainly knows his stuff, when it comes to barbecue.
But he also knows chili. So when he cooks up a cauldron (or two) of chili, my guys are sure to clamber ‘round.
And usually someone’s more than willing to bake up some super-sweet cornbread, to go with it.
But there’s one thing that “my guys” love even more than chili.
So that’s what I decided on.
I waited a few seconds, until the pack of road-racing cyclists AND the San Diego Chicken lookalikes were approaching the new Kenny’s Quick Lube parking, and coming just-abreast of where I’d parked the Tour Bus broadside, with the “REAL DOGS COOK!” sign emblazoned on the side facing the road, when I started yelling out…
… “COTTON CANDY!” “FREE COTTON CANDY!”
Boy, that stopped them all, dead in their tracks. (Some of the cyclists actually crashed into each other, trying to stop and swerve out of each other’s way, as they carned their necks in my direction. I felt a little sheepish, causing the mini-pile-up, but sometimes you just hafta do what you hafta do.)
I think that the folks who were already milling around the parking lot, enjoying the free-food table and the free-drinks table, getting their cars washed or their oil changed, ogling the pretty girl “lube techs” or just shooting the breeze about what a fun event this was turning out to be—I think that those folks hadn’t even heard me or heard what exactly I was yelling out.
But the folks in that bicycle pack, and the San Diego Chicken impersonators, and most definitely that very large pack of snarling dogs that had been chasing them—THEY’D certainly heard what I’d been yelling.
“FREE COTTON CANDY”
Because they all—to a man—executed near-perfect left-hand turns and barreled full-blast into that Kenny’s Quick Lube parking lot.
Anybody trying to train a marching band would’ve been proud of that precision left-hand turn.
I’ve never been to a greyhound race, but I imagine that they look sorta like that when they round the final turn and head for the finish line. Tight.
September 9, 2020
Well, the answer to that question—“Where the heck have the dogs gotten themselves to now?”-- came soon enough.
All I had to do was look up the road a ways.
As it turned out, not only was Kenny having a grand opening for his new Tappahannock “Kenny’s Quick Lube,” some other great American entrepreneur was—just today!—opening up some sort of Chick-fil-A knock-off right up the street. And to publicize it, he’d apparently decided to hold a San Diego Chicken lookalike contest.
At least that’s what I was led to surmise, when I saw these four guys huffing and puffing their way down the road in our direction.
I don’t know if all the huffing and puffing had been part of their original game plan. Maybe they were actually running away from having held up a bank or something (though the Chick-fil-A event seemed a more likely excuse). Or maybe they were just trying to out-distance the pack of barking dogs that appeared to be chasing them. Some of whom—some of the dogs, I mean—appeared to be none other than my 8 guys, plus the 3 sheepdog puppies. (The puppies were dragging, so I guessed that this chase had been going on for a while. Maybe they were all doing laps around the block or something.)
Almost as surprising as the appearance of the San Diego Chicken impersonators was the simultaneous arrival of a pack of very serious-looking road cyclists, who were also, (not surprisingly) doing some serious huffing and puffing themselves. (Though not too much. The road was almost dead-flat.)
I glanced over at Kenny, and he didn’t seem too pleased that all this carnival-like traffic was (at least momentarily) blocking people’s ability to turn into his parking lot.
I was pretty sure that the road-racing cyclists would be gone in a minute or two, but what would happen if the dogs managed to take one of the would-be San Diego Chickens to ground? (Especially right in front of Kenny’s Quick Lube. That wouldn’t be good for business.) Would they tear him limb from limb?.. Would we have to call 911?.. Have the place swarming with cops and ambulances?.. Sirens?.. Maybe even a fire truck. Dogs love fire trucks.
I guessed that my best bet was to save the chickens.
But how?
Well, the answer to that question—“Where the heck have the dogs gotten themselves to now?”-- came soon enough.
All I had to do was look up the road a ways.
As it turned out, not only was Kenny having a grand opening for his new Tappahannock “Kenny’s Quick Lube,” some other great American entrepreneur was—just today!—opening up some sort of Chick-fil-A knock-off right up the street. And to publicize it, he’d apparently decided to hold a San Diego Chicken lookalike contest.
At least that’s what I was led to surmise, when I saw these four guys huffing and puffing their way down the road in our direction.
I don’t know if all the huffing and puffing had been part of their original game plan. Maybe they were actually running away from having held up a bank or something (though the Chick-fil-A event seemed a more likely excuse). Or maybe they were just trying to out-distance the pack of barking dogs that appeared to be chasing them. Some of whom—some of the dogs, I mean—appeared to be none other than my 8 guys, plus the 3 sheepdog puppies. (The puppies were dragging, so I guessed that this chase had been going on for a while. Maybe they were all doing laps around the block or something.)
Almost as surprising as the appearance of the San Diego Chicken impersonators was the simultaneous arrival of a pack of very serious-looking road cyclists, who were also, (not surprisingly) doing some serious huffing and puffing themselves. (Though not too much. The road was almost dead-flat.)
I glanced over at Kenny, and he didn’t seem too pleased that all this carnival-like traffic was (at least momentarily) blocking people’s ability to turn into his parking lot.
I was pretty sure that the road-racing cyclists would be gone in a minute or two, but what would happen if the dogs managed to take one of the would-be San Diego Chickens to ground? (Especially right in front of Kenny’s Quick Lube. That wouldn’t be good for business.) Would they tear him limb from limb?.. Would we have to call 911?.. Have the place swarming with cops and ambulances?.. Sirens?.. Maybe even a fire truck. Dogs love fire trucks.
I guessed that my best bet was to save the chickens.
But how?
September 8, 2020
He offered to try washing the Tour Bus after he was done with his own “pair,” as he referred to the big bug and the little bug. But I spied a couple of energetic teenagers standing in the next lane, and asked them if they were ready for MY “big bus.”
It turned out, they weren’t working. They were just hanging around waiting for the free ice cream. But they seemed open-minded, so I tried to interest them in how much fun it might be, to try washing an entire bus—all by themselves. With me helping, of course. (Americana/Literature enthusiasts would recognize this as the “Huck Finn” approach.)
And surprisingly, they jumped at the idea! How much fun, indeed, might it be, to wash AN ENTIRE BUS!
Well, they quit… part-way through. A threesome of pretty girls their age came moseying by…
… and there was some friendly bantering back and forth…
… and next I looked up…
… the two teenage boys were gone.
Vamoosed.
I would’ve done the same thing, in their position.
And I don’t know how we were ever gonna get the top of The Bus cleaned, with just a garden hose, one mop, and 2 brooms, anyway.
So I kept at it for a few more minutes, and I managed to scrub a lot of grime off of the wheel covers and the rear fenders…
… until the mop handle snapped off.
That was the end of the Tour Bus getting cleaned.
So I cranked it back up, drove a big circle around the back of Kenny’s Quick Lube, and parked it (as per Kenny’s request) up front facing the highway, with the big “REAL DOGS COOK!” label working (supposedly) as a come-on for innocent drivers tooling by on their way somewhere else.
(It was Saturday morning, after all, so lots of folks were out on shopping expeditions anyway. Why not stop by and check out the new oil-change joint?)
Plenty of folks had done just that, already. The parking lot out front was jamming with kids and dogs, all running around, moms chatting with other moms, and guys (presumably some of them dads) jawing with other guys.
One smart thing that Kenny had done: He’d hired some VERY pretty young ladies to do the free oil changes. (I assume this was just for the Grand Opening. I mean, I seriously doubt that if you showed up at a Kenny’s Quick Lube on a normal Wednesday, you wouldn’t be getting your oil changed by some future Miss State of Virginia or this month’s “Vogue Magazine” cover model.)
So there were PLENTY of guys loitering just in front of the oil-changing bays. Jawing with each other, but also (plainly) ogling. And “peeping,” “staring,” “leering,” “gaping,” “gawking,” etc….
Because these girls were real lookers. Even in the one-piece pit-crew jumpsuits. (Which were pretty form-fitting, considering.) Not that they were anything but professional. This was a family event, after all. But the guys were definitely gawking, etc…
Which, if nothing else, kept them out of the way of all the kids and dogs running amok. (Otherwise, you know, the dads among them might’ve been running after all the kids and dogs, trying to corral them into “behaving.” Which wouldn’t made the scene just that much more chaotic.) As it was, with the “grown men” safely gathered in front of the oil-changing bays, the rest of us were free to enjoy ourselves at the free food table, the free drinks table, and the (hopefully soon-to-be-opening) ice cream table.
Now all I had to do was find out where Allison and her TV crew were…
… where WE were expected to set up our parking-lot cooking demonstration…
… and get the show on the road.
Plus, I thought to myself as I gazed around the parking lot, it would help if I knew where the dogs had gotten themselves to.
He offered to try washing the Tour Bus after he was done with his own “pair,” as he referred to the big bug and the little bug. But I spied a couple of energetic teenagers standing in the next lane, and asked them if they were ready for MY “big bus.”
It turned out, they weren’t working. They were just hanging around waiting for the free ice cream. But they seemed open-minded, so I tried to interest them in how much fun it might be, to try washing an entire bus—all by themselves. With me helping, of course. (Americana/Literature enthusiasts would recognize this as the “Huck Finn” approach.)
And surprisingly, they jumped at the idea! How much fun, indeed, might it be, to wash AN ENTIRE BUS!
Well, they quit… part-way through. A threesome of pretty girls their age came moseying by…
… and there was some friendly bantering back and forth…
… and next I looked up…
… the two teenage boys were gone.
Vamoosed.
I would’ve done the same thing, in their position.
And I don’t know how we were ever gonna get the top of The Bus cleaned, with just a garden hose, one mop, and 2 brooms, anyway.
So I kept at it for a few more minutes, and I managed to scrub a lot of grime off of the wheel covers and the rear fenders…
… until the mop handle snapped off.
That was the end of the Tour Bus getting cleaned.
So I cranked it back up, drove a big circle around the back of Kenny’s Quick Lube, and parked it (as per Kenny’s request) up front facing the highway, with the big “REAL DOGS COOK!” label working (supposedly) as a come-on for innocent drivers tooling by on their way somewhere else.
(It was Saturday morning, after all, so lots of folks were out on shopping expeditions anyway. Why not stop by and check out the new oil-change joint?)
Plenty of folks had done just that, already. The parking lot out front was jamming with kids and dogs, all running around, moms chatting with other moms, and guys (presumably some of them dads) jawing with other guys.
One smart thing that Kenny had done: He’d hired some VERY pretty young ladies to do the free oil changes. (I assume this was just for the Grand Opening. I mean, I seriously doubt that if you showed up at a Kenny’s Quick Lube on a normal Wednesday, you wouldn’t be getting your oil changed by some future Miss State of Virginia or this month’s “Vogue Magazine” cover model.)
So there were PLENTY of guys loitering just in front of the oil-changing bays. Jawing with each other, but also (plainly) ogling. And “peeping,” “staring,” “leering,” “gaping,” “gawking,” etc….
Because these girls were real lookers. Even in the one-piece pit-crew jumpsuits. (Which were pretty form-fitting, considering.) Not that they were anything but professional. This was a family event, after all. But the guys were definitely gawking, etc…
Which, if nothing else, kept them out of the way of all the kids and dogs running amok. (Otherwise, you know, the dads among them might’ve been running after all the kids and dogs, trying to corral them into “behaving.” Which wouldn’t made the scene just that much more chaotic.) As it was, with the “grown men” safely gathered in front of the oil-changing bays, the rest of us were free to enjoy ourselves at the free food table, the free drinks table, and the (hopefully soon-to-be-opening) ice cream table.
Now all I had to do was find out where Allison and her TV crew were…
… where WE were expected to set up our parking-lot cooking demonstration…
… and get the show on the road.
Plus, I thought to myself as I gazed around the parking lot, it would help if I knew where the dogs had gotten themselves to.
September 7, 2020
There are situations that come up, when we’re on the road, where I find myself wondering whether we really should be wearing some type of uniform. (Like me, at that moment, thinking about putting on my chef’s hat… Assuming that I could find it… And that it hadn’t gotten totally squashed under a pile of rubble somewhere in The Bus… And I could get all the wrinkles out well enough so that it didn’t look like I’d slept with it on, or used it as a pillow.)
But we’re generally not with another large pack of dogs, so the fact that we’re traveling together on a bus labeled “REAL DOGS COOK!” usually leads people to assume that we’re the guys from The Chow Network. Which is usually enough for them to give us some space. Usually: plenty of space.
Because my guys ARE KNOWN for needing more than a little “breathing room.”
Anyway…
I hopped back in The Bus and cranked it back up. While t was warming up, I called Deputy Rick’s wife Allison, to see if she and her TV station crew were on their way.
No answer. Hmm.
So, for lack of any sense of hurry, I decided that I may as well get The Bus in line for a free car wash before I moved it out front facing the highway, like Kenny had asked me to do.
The Tour Bus can get mighty dirty mighty fast, as I guess any rock-band roadie (or Greyhound Bus driver, for that matter) could probably tell you. And if you think that a Tour Bus gets dirty on the OUTSIDE, you should see what it can look like INSIDE.
(Better yet, you wouldn’t want to see. Just use your imagination. It wouldn’t go so far as the monstrous mess that 8 dogs and one human can actually amass in a very short time, but you really wouldn’t want to witness the real thing, so an innocent approximation would be plenty for you.)
At any rate, I was hoping that maybe there’d be a “pre-wash vacuum-and-remove-the-obvious-trash-from-the-insides” station, before I inched The Bus forward to the “washing” area proper. (Somehow I’d been thinking that maybe Kenny had enlisted the help of some high-schoolers for that duty.) But other than some empty 55-gallon drums that he’d lined up to create 3 separate lanes for cars (which might’ve been optimistic, seeing as how I was the only guy in line, at 10:45 am), I didn’t see any way to dispose of any trash while I was waiting.
What I did see, when I looked to the front where some water did seem to be getting sprinkled on a couple of cars, was a guy who must’ve thought that this was a do-it-yourself operation, because he was busy all by his lonesome, washing his equivalent of “the big boat and the matching dinghy.”
I took a picture, just so that I could share it with you.
Check it out.
There are situations that come up, when we’re on the road, where I find myself wondering whether we really should be wearing some type of uniform. (Like me, at that moment, thinking about putting on my chef’s hat… Assuming that I could find it… And that it hadn’t gotten totally squashed under a pile of rubble somewhere in The Bus… And I could get all the wrinkles out well enough so that it didn’t look like I’d slept with it on, or used it as a pillow.)
But we’re generally not with another large pack of dogs, so the fact that we’re traveling together on a bus labeled “REAL DOGS COOK!” usually leads people to assume that we’re the guys from The Chow Network. Which is usually enough for them to give us some space. Usually: plenty of space.
Because my guys ARE KNOWN for needing more than a little “breathing room.”
Anyway…
I hopped back in The Bus and cranked it back up. While t was warming up, I called Deputy Rick’s wife Allison, to see if she and her TV station crew were on their way.
No answer. Hmm.
So, for lack of any sense of hurry, I decided that I may as well get The Bus in line for a free car wash before I moved it out front facing the highway, like Kenny had asked me to do.
The Tour Bus can get mighty dirty mighty fast, as I guess any rock-band roadie (or Greyhound Bus driver, for that matter) could probably tell you. And if you think that a Tour Bus gets dirty on the OUTSIDE, you should see what it can look like INSIDE.
(Better yet, you wouldn’t want to see. Just use your imagination. It wouldn’t go so far as the monstrous mess that 8 dogs and one human can actually amass in a very short time, but you really wouldn’t want to witness the real thing, so an innocent approximation would be plenty for you.)
At any rate, I was hoping that maybe there’d be a “pre-wash vacuum-and-remove-the-obvious-trash-from-the-insides” station, before I inched The Bus forward to the “washing” area proper. (Somehow I’d been thinking that maybe Kenny had enlisted the help of some high-schoolers for that duty.) But other than some empty 55-gallon drums that he’d lined up to create 3 separate lanes for cars (which might’ve been optimistic, seeing as how I was the only guy in line, at 10:45 am), I didn’t see any way to dispose of any trash while I was waiting.
What I did see, when I looked to the front where some water did seem to be getting sprinkled on a couple of cars, was a guy who must’ve thought that this was a do-it-yourself operation, because he was busy all by his lonesome, washing his equivalent of “the big boat and the matching dinghy.”
I took a picture, just so that I could share it with you.
Check it out.
September 4, 2020
Never mind that we’d only 60 minutes earlier left a house with a close-to-Olympic-sized swimming pool.
To a dog, it’s never too early to get wet all over again! Especially if you’re going to be standing on the baking-hot concrete of a shopping-mall parking lot for hours and hours.
Okay, it wasn’t a “shopping-mall parking lot.” It was a Kenny’s Quick Lube, which was wedged in between a convenience store and a dry cleaner’s.
And it was, actually, asphalt (though newly-laid and still sticky). And it was still going to be hotter-than-blazes. (Where do we humans come up with these metaphors?) And—if we were lucky—we were going to be standing on this very same tarmac for LITERALLY hours and hours.
At least that was the plan.
I hopped out of the driver’s seat, trundled down to the bottom step. Looking out, I didn’t see any TV trucks in the vicinity. Or a TV sedan-type vehicle that might be holding Deputy Rick’s wife Allison.
Or, looking around some more, did I see anyone who, I might mistake for “Kenny” of Kenny’s Quick Lube.
Or, for that matter, anyone in a grease-monkey jumpsuit who might be capable of changing my oil.
(Not that I needed an oil change. The Bus had its problems, but it didn’t need an oil change. We’d taken care of the monthly routine maintenance when we were up in Baltimore… BEFORE we got arrested… and spent the night in jail.)
So I didn’t see anyone official-looking, but there certainly were lots of people milling around (and kids running all over the place, which is usually a good sign for parking-lot-based promotions. Where there are kids, there are moms. And moms, as we all know, spend—or okay—most of the discretionary money in the family.)
But having a Tour Bus emblazoned with the words “REAL DOGS COOK!” usually guarantees that we’ll get noticed, so it didn’t take long for someone to walk up to me and introduce himself.
And, as it turned out, the guy wound up being “Kenny” (of Kenny’s Quick Lube) himself.
“Kenny” was, of course, all smiles. Very happy indeed that his “Grand Opening” was proceeding well (at least thus far). Very proud to be presiding over the festivities celebrating the SIXTH location for his ever-expanding chain. And “pleased as punch” (his words) to have my retinue of world-famous canine chefs in attendance. He claimed that he and his wife and their three St. Bernards were avid fans—devoted watchers—of The Chow Network.
(“Every night just after the boys get their dinner, out back. We try to feed ‘em proper, you know, just lean meat and a bit of a treat, now and then. But they do love to watch your fellas cook up all those fancy, fun meals. The wife and I have been promising ‘em—for ages now—that we’d take ‘em all up to the big city, see some sights and maybe get tickets to a live taping of one of your shows. They’re a bit big, I know, to fit in those standard-sized audience seats, but maybe we could just get standing-room-only places in the back. And they’re really well-behaved. We wouldn’t have to worry about them charging the stage, or howling when they didn’t get picked to try out the free samples you hand out at the end of the show…”)
He could’ve gone on forever, it seemed, but someone was beckoning him from the front of the oil-changing bays, so he had to scurry off to “tend to business.”
But not before he once again welcomed me (and the gang) to his “festival,” told me to definitely help myself to any and all of the food, and then, almost as an afterthought, asked me to move the Tour Bus to the front of the parking-lot. And park it sideways, with the big “REAL DOGS COOK!” name facing the highway, as an added attraction for folks casually driving by.
He thought that might make a great additional come-on to the festivities, and of course I was welcome to take his request as the compliment it had been intended to be.
(Maybe, I thought, I should put on my chef’s hat, so people would know that “I was with the band.”)
Never mind that we’d only 60 minutes earlier left a house with a close-to-Olympic-sized swimming pool.
To a dog, it’s never too early to get wet all over again! Especially if you’re going to be standing on the baking-hot concrete of a shopping-mall parking lot for hours and hours.
Okay, it wasn’t a “shopping-mall parking lot.” It was a Kenny’s Quick Lube, which was wedged in between a convenience store and a dry cleaner’s.
And it was, actually, asphalt (though newly-laid and still sticky). And it was still going to be hotter-than-blazes. (Where do we humans come up with these metaphors?) And—if we were lucky—we were going to be standing on this very same tarmac for LITERALLY hours and hours.
At least that was the plan.
I hopped out of the driver’s seat, trundled down to the bottom step. Looking out, I didn’t see any TV trucks in the vicinity. Or a TV sedan-type vehicle that might be holding Deputy Rick’s wife Allison.
Or, looking around some more, did I see anyone who, I might mistake for “Kenny” of Kenny’s Quick Lube.
Or, for that matter, anyone in a grease-monkey jumpsuit who might be capable of changing my oil.
(Not that I needed an oil change. The Bus had its problems, but it didn’t need an oil change. We’d taken care of the monthly routine maintenance when we were up in Baltimore… BEFORE we got arrested… and spent the night in jail.)
So I didn’t see anyone official-looking, but there certainly were lots of people milling around (and kids running all over the place, which is usually a good sign for parking-lot-based promotions. Where there are kids, there are moms. And moms, as we all know, spend—or okay—most of the discretionary money in the family.)
But having a Tour Bus emblazoned with the words “REAL DOGS COOK!” usually guarantees that we’ll get noticed, so it didn’t take long for someone to walk up to me and introduce himself.
And, as it turned out, the guy wound up being “Kenny” (of Kenny’s Quick Lube) himself.
“Kenny” was, of course, all smiles. Very happy indeed that his “Grand Opening” was proceeding well (at least thus far). Very proud to be presiding over the festivities celebrating the SIXTH location for his ever-expanding chain. And “pleased as punch” (his words) to have my retinue of world-famous canine chefs in attendance. He claimed that he and his wife and their three St. Bernards were avid fans—devoted watchers—of The Chow Network.
(“Every night just after the boys get their dinner, out back. We try to feed ‘em proper, you know, just lean meat and a bit of a treat, now and then. But they do love to watch your fellas cook up all those fancy, fun meals. The wife and I have been promising ‘em—for ages now—that we’d take ‘em all up to the big city, see some sights and maybe get tickets to a live taping of one of your shows. They’re a bit big, I know, to fit in those standard-sized audience seats, but maybe we could just get standing-room-only places in the back. And they’re really well-behaved. We wouldn’t have to worry about them charging the stage, or howling when they didn’t get picked to try out the free samples you hand out at the end of the show…”)
He could’ve gone on forever, it seemed, but someone was beckoning him from the front of the oil-changing bays, so he had to scurry off to “tend to business.”
But not before he once again welcomed me (and the gang) to his “festival,” told me to definitely help myself to any and all of the food, and then, almost as an afterthought, asked me to move the Tour Bus to the front of the parking-lot. And park it sideways, with the big “REAL DOGS COOK!” name facing the highway, as an added attraction for folks casually driving by.
He thought that might make a great additional come-on to the festivities, and of course I was welcome to take his request as the compliment it had been intended to be.
(Maybe, I thought, I should put on my chef’s hat, so people would know that “I was with the band.”)
September 3, 2020
So this was going to be fun!
You know: So many times in your life, it’s all about how you react to situations. It’s all about ATTITUDE.
And with my guys, they almost always have a great attitude. I mean: really great.
So when we pulled up in front of Kenny’s Quick Lube, we could’ve been disappointed that it wasn’t a new Super Walmart, or Giganto Target, or maybe a Mondo MacDonald’s or Furniture Mart. There weren’t any Ferris Wheels or Merry-Go-Rounds or Bouncey Houses, but my guys didn’t care.
They saw kids running around, and water being splashed, and free food, and that was enough for them!
So before I knew it, they’d all dashed straight out the door of the Tour Bus. (Almost before I’d even come to a full stop… much less had time to ask somebody in charge where he wanted me to park the damned thing. It does take up a lot of room. Even in a parking lot.)
“The kids” (the 3 sheepdog puppies: Sherman, Tyrone, and Claire) tumbled out after them, and I could only hope that SOMEBODY—ANYBODY—would be keeping an eye on THEM. We certainly didn’t need to lose them a second time!
But first things first…
… And dogs being dogs…
… Their first priority was…
… getting wet!
So this was going to be fun!
You know: So many times in your life, it’s all about how you react to situations. It’s all about ATTITUDE.
And with my guys, they almost always have a great attitude. I mean: really great.
So when we pulled up in front of Kenny’s Quick Lube, we could’ve been disappointed that it wasn’t a new Super Walmart, or Giganto Target, or maybe a Mondo MacDonald’s or Furniture Mart. There weren’t any Ferris Wheels or Merry-Go-Rounds or Bouncey Houses, but my guys didn’t care.
They saw kids running around, and water being splashed, and free food, and that was enough for them!
So before I knew it, they’d all dashed straight out the door of the Tour Bus. (Almost before I’d even come to a full stop… much less had time to ask somebody in charge where he wanted me to park the damned thing. It does take up a lot of room. Even in a parking lot.)
“The kids” (the 3 sheepdog puppies: Sherman, Tyrone, and Claire) tumbled out after them, and I could only hope that SOMEBODY—ANYBODY—would be keeping an eye on THEM. We certainly didn’t need to lose them a second time!
But first things first…
… And dogs being dogs…
… Their first priority was…
… getting wet!
September 2, 2020
So we rushed to “the site,” escorted by one of Virginia’s finest. I never even caught the state trooper’s name, because after he drove into the parking lot (followed by our Tour Bus), it seemed like he got an emergency call. I saw him squawking into his radio, so he was probably responding to a dispatcher. He glanced over at me (behind the steering wheel of The Bus), gave me a thumbs-up and a smile, then waved and shot off out of the parking lot with a squeal of tires and a blast of his siren.
“After the dust settled,” as it were, we had time to take a gander around the pakring lot and get our bearings.
Now, if you recall, this parking-lot “blow-out” had been touted as a new huge big-box “major retailer” store opening. That’s how it was portrayed to us, anyway, by Deputy Rick’s wife Allison, who was the station manager at some Richmond Cable-TV station. This whole production had been her idea.
Well, in retrospect (and actually, even at that time), I have to wonder whether a 3-bay garage called “Kenny’s Quick Lube” should really qualify as a “major retailer.”
There definitely are “major retailers” in Tappahannock. In fact, I think that there’s just about every major retail big-box outfit you can think of, somewhere in Tappanhannock. You name it, it’s there. But whether a 3-bay garage standing all by its lonesome, with a convenience store on one side and a dry cleaner’s on the other, should qualify as a “big-box” ANYTHING would be an open question. (Certainly, it was BOX-y. As in: a basically square building. But it was a far cry from “BIG.”)
Be that as it may, my guys were anything but disappointed. You see, Kenny’s new Quick Lube was indeed celebrating its Opening Day. And it wasn’t offering just free Opening-Day oil changes. No-- from a dog’s perspective, anyway-- they were offering something even better: free car washes!
Dogs, in case you’ve never noticed, absolutely LOVE car washes. Not because of the soap (obviously). And not so much because of the water. (Though they certainly don’t mind getting spritzed on a hot day… Who does?) And definitely not because of the possibility of somebody thoughtlessly handing them some free food. (Like a hot dog.) (Which, when you’re around these particular dogs, at least, you’re required to refer to as “wieners,” “Vienna sausages,” or “franks.” Preferably all-beef franks.)
No. What they really like is simply getting in the way of a lot of humans who are trying to get something done. They really enjoy that. (I’m sure you’ve noticed. Even if you don’t own a dog, yourself.)
So what could be better, from a dog’s point-of-view?
From the moment we pulled into the parking lot, we were presented with the spectacle of lots of people standing around, some cars in lines to get free oil changes and free car washes, and a smattering of kids running back-and-forth between a food table, a Hawaiian Punch cold-drinks dispensing machine, and what looked like an ice-cream serving station (which hadn’t been put into action quite yet.)
You should’ve seen the expectant faces of my guys, pressed against the windows of the Tour Bus! Boy, they couldn’t wait for me to open the door and let them run loose amongst all that!
IT was gonna be a fun day!
Definitely!
(And who doesn’t like a good Hawaiian Punch, on a hot day?)
So we rushed to “the site,” escorted by one of Virginia’s finest. I never even caught the state trooper’s name, because after he drove into the parking lot (followed by our Tour Bus), it seemed like he got an emergency call. I saw him squawking into his radio, so he was probably responding to a dispatcher. He glanced over at me (behind the steering wheel of The Bus), gave me a thumbs-up and a smile, then waved and shot off out of the parking lot with a squeal of tires and a blast of his siren.
“After the dust settled,” as it were, we had time to take a gander around the pakring lot and get our bearings.
Now, if you recall, this parking-lot “blow-out” had been touted as a new huge big-box “major retailer” store opening. That’s how it was portrayed to us, anyway, by Deputy Rick’s wife Allison, who was the station manager at some Richmond Cable-TV station. This whole production had been her idea.
Well, in retrospect (and actually, even at that time), I have to wonder whether a 3-bay garage called “Kenny’s Quick Lube” should really qualify as a “major retailer.”
There definitely are “major retailers” in Tappahannock. In fact, I think that there’s just about every major retail big-box outfit you can think of, somewhere in Tappanhannock. You name it, it’s there. But whether a 3-bay garage standing all by its lonesome, with a convenience store on one side and a dry cleaner’s on the other, should qualify as a “big-box” ANYTHING would be an open question. (Certainly, it was BOX-y. As in: a basically square building. But it was a far cry from “BIG.”)
Be that as it may, my guys were anything but disappointed. You see, Kenny’s new Quick Lube was indeed celebrating its Opening Day. And it wasn’t offering just free Opening-Day oil changes. No-- from a dog’s perspective, anyway-- they were offering something even better: free car washes!
Dogs, in case you’ve never noticed, absolutely LOVE car washes. Not because of the soap (obviously). And not so much because of the water. (Though they certainly don’t mind getting spritzed on a hot day… Who does?) And definitely not because of the possibility of somebody thoughtlessly handing them some free food. (Like a hot dog.) (Which, when you’re around these particular dogs, at least, you’re required to refer to as “wieners,” “Vienna sausages,” or “franks.” Preferably all-beef franks.)
No. What they really like is simply getting in the way of a lot of humans who are trying to get something done. They really enjoy that. (I’m sure you’ve noticed. Even if you don’t own a dog, yourself.)
So what could be better, from a dog’s point-of-view?
From the moment we pulled into the parking lot, we were presented with the spectacle of lots of people standing around, some cars in lines to get free oil changes and free car washes, and a smattering of kids running back-and-forth between a food table, a Hawaiian Punch cold-drinks dispensing machine, and what looked like an ice-cream serving station (which hadn’t been put into action quite yet.)
You should’ve seen the expectant faces of my guys, pressed against the windows of the Tour Bus! Boy, they couldn’t wait for me to open the door and let them run loose amongst all that!
IT was gonna be a fun day!
Definitely!
(And who doesn’t like a good Hawaiian Punch, on a hot day?)
September 1, 2020
The state trooper turned out to be a really nice guy. Of course.
And he also turned out to be good friends with Deputy Rick.
So we actually wound up having a very friendly chat. During which I introduced all of the dogs to him, and not surprisingly, after he found out who I was traveling with, he mentioned that he and his wife lived with not one but TWO English springer spaniels, who were both HUGE FANS of The Chow Network, and EVEN MORE IMMENSE FANS of our own Suzie Snow Peas.
So just imagine his shock and surprise when I mentioned that we were, right then, on our way to hosting an outdoor cooking demonstration—with the aforementioned Suzie Snow Peas as Lead Hostess—in Tappahannock! He instantly got on his cell phone to his wife, to tell her to wrestle up the spaniels and head on over there themselves. And he all but demanded that we allow him to personally escort us the rest of the trip (all of 3 miles!) to the shopping center. Overhead cop-car lights flashing, siren blaring. It was quite a sight! (Especially with the sides of the Tour Bus emblazoned, as they are, with our Chow Network logo and the fancy all-Italics “REAL DOGS COOK!” banner… I know you’ve seen it on TV and in pictures in the magazines.)
(Some day I’d like to talk the suits at Corporate into paying to paint the old Gulfstream I have back home the same way. I’ve even thought of a new color scheme. But for the time being, it’s just sitting there, parked out in the open (I can’t even afford the exorbitant amount that they charge to keep it under the General Aviation roofs) and rusting away in the rain and the snow.)
(But one can always dream…)
The state trooper turned out to be a really nice guy. Of course.
And he also turned out to be good friends with Deputy Rick.
So we actually wound up having a very friendly chat. During which I introduced all of the dogs to him, and not surprisingly, after he found out who I was traveling with, he mentioned that he and his wife lived with not one but TWO English springer spaniels, who were both HUGE FANS of The Chow Network, and EVEN MORE IMMENSE FANS of our own Suzie Snow Peas.
So just imagine his shock and surprise when I mentioned that we were, right then, on our way to hosting an outdoor cooking demonstration—with the aforementioned Suzie Snow Peas as Lead Hostess—in Tappahannock! He instantly got on his cell phone to his wife, to tell her to wrestle up the spaniels and head on over there themselves. And he all but demanded that we allow him to personally escort us the rest of the trip (all of 3 miles!) to the shopping center. Overhead cop-car lights flashing, siren blaring. It was quite a sight! (Especially with the sides of the Tour Bus emblazoned, as they are, with our Chow Network logo and the fancy all-Italics “REAL DOGS COOK!” banner… I know you’ve seen it on TV and in pictures in the magazines.)
(Some day I’d like to talk the suits at Corporate into paying to paint the old Gulfstream I have back home the same way. I’ve even thought of a new color scheme. But for the time being, it’s just sitting there, parked out in the open (I can’t even afford the exorbitant amount that they charge to keep it under the General Aviation roofs) and rusting away in the rain and the snow.)
(But one can always dream…)
August 31, 2020
A curious movie trivia tidbit that I just learned a few days ago. I was watching a TCM presentation of “The Egg and I” (1947), with Claudette Colbert and Fred MacMurray.
He mentioned that Claudette Colbert had originally cast to play the namesake lead in “All About Eve,” which wound up becoming one of Bette Davis’s most famous roles. Wouldn’t it have been interesting to see how Colbert would’ve handled that role?
And the reason why I thought of that was:
The famous line in the movie is when Bette Davis advises her dinner guests to “buckle up,” because “it’s going to be a bumpy night.” (Or was it “a bumpy ride?”)
So anyway…
There I was, behind the wheel of the Tour Bus.
And I’d forgotten how much fun driving around in the Tour Bus could be. Because this was the first time the 3 sheepdog puppies—Sherman, Tyrone, and Claire—whom we would soon come to refer to as simply “the kids”—had been on The Bus for a real ride.
Yes, they’d spent hours the previous day hiding out in The Bus, hoping to stow away long enough that we’d be forced to (basically) adopt them. But this was the first time they’d ever been in The Bus and actually going somewhere. Even if it was only across the Rappahannock River bridge and into beautiful downtown Tappahannock.
From virtually the moment I put The Bus in gear, “the kids” were jumping all over the place. They were so excited to be moving, and (obviously) to have been accepted as members of the gang. It was almost a half-dangerous distraction, to have them bouncing from one seat to the next, faces pressed against one window only to jump across the aisle and gaze out the window on the other side of the bus. Then to suddenly decide that maybe the view out the back-door window would be even more interesting. Then just as suddenly decide that they needed to look out the front windows, so they scampered back up the aisle and half-plowed into me in their eagerness to see what was coming down the road at us.
Damn, they were like a whirlwind! The only thing that could’ve made them more dangerous would’ve been if we’d had a bus-load of helium-filled balloons for them to bat around. THAT would’ve made driving a challenge!
And of course once they were almost sitting in my lap, they wanted me to show them what all the knobs and dials and whojits on the dashboard were for. And then they wanted to learn how to turn on the windshield wipers, and then spray some windshield-washing liquid on the windows so that we could wipe the dead bugs off the windshield. (Who hasn’t enjoyed doing THAT?)
And of course they all wanted to take a turn honking the horn.
And then they all had to run BACK DOWN the aisle, so they could look out the back-door window again.
At which point Howie (of course it would be him) decided that it was time for them to learn how to MOON people out the back-door window.
And (of course) he had to show them how JUST as a state trooper happened to be driving by.
Which (of course) caused the state trooper to pull out in front of The Bus and motion for me to pull over to the side of the road.
Of course.
Why should this day be any different from any other?
(And to think that the day started with me thinking about Claudette Colbert and Bette Davis. And then thoughts of helium-balloon volleyball.)
A curious movie trivia tidbit that I just learned a few days ago. I was watching a TCM presentation of “The Egg and I” (1947), with Claudette Colbert and Fred MacMurray.
He mentioned that Claudette Colbert had originally cast to play the namesake lead in “All About Eve,” which wound up becoming one of Bette Davis’s most famous roles. Wouldn’t it have been interesting to see how Colbert would’ve handled that role?
And the reason why I thought of that was:
The famous line in the movie is when Bette Davis advises her dinner guests to “buckle up,” because “it’s going to be a bumpy night.” (Or was it “a bumpy ride?”)
So anyway…
There I was, behind the wheel of the Tour Bus.
And I’d forgotten how much fun driving around in the Tour Bus could be. Because this was the first time the 3 sheepdog puppies—Sherman, Tyrone, and Claire—whom we would soon come to refer to as simply “the kids”—had been on The Bus for a real ride.
Yes, they’d spent hours the previous day hiding out in The Bus, hoping to stow away long enough that we’d be forced to (basically) adopt them. But this was the first time they’d ever been in The Bus and actually going somewhere. Even if it was only across the Rappahannock River bridge and into beautiful downtown Tappahannock.
From virtually the moment I put The Bus in gear, “the kids” were jumping all over the place. They were so excited to be moving, and (obviously) to have been accepted as members of the gang. It was almost a half-dangerous distraction, to have them bouncing from one seat to the next, faces pressed against one window only to jump across the aisle and gaze out the window on the other side of the bus. Then to suddenly decide that maybe the view out the back-door window would be even more interesting. Then just as suddenly decide that they needed to look out the front windows, so they scampered back up the aisle and half-plowed into me in their eagerness to see what was coming down the road at us.
Damn, they were like a whirlwind! The only thing that could’ve made them more dangerous would’ve been if we’d had a bus-load of helium-filled balloons for them to bat around. THAT would’ve made driving a challenge!
And of course once they were almost sitting in my lap, they wanted me to show them what all the knobs and dials and whojits on the dashboard were for. And then they wanted to learn how to turn on the windshield wipers, and then spray some windshield-washing liquid on the windows so that we could wipe the dead bugs off the windshield. (Who hasn’t enjoyed doing THAT?)
And of course they all wanted to take a turn honking the horn.
And then they all had to run BACK DOWN the aisle, so they could look out the back-door window again.
At which point Howie (of course it would be him) decided that it was time for them to learn how to MOON people out the back-door window.
And (of course) he had to show them how JUST as a state trooper happened to be driving by.
Which (of course) caused the state trooper to pull out in front of The Bus and motion for me to pull over to the side of the road.
Of course.
Why should this day be any different from any other?
(And to think that the day started with me thinking about Claudette Colbert and Bette Davis. And then thoughts of helium-balloon volleyball.)
August 28, 2020
But we still had a cooking demonstration to do, and it looked like we were going to have absolutely great weather for it.
All we had to do was find the shopping mall.
Definitely a must: finding the shopping mall.
So while everybody else was busy chowing down on breakfast (lovingly prepared by Terry and Maggie, so you can almost guess at how “eclectic” the buffet selections must’ve been), I got on the phone and tried to reach Deputy Rick’s wife Allison.
Allison, if you remember, is the manager of a cable-access TV station in Richmond, and it was her idea, initially, to do this cooking demo. Her station had been planning on doing a festive live-remote from a big-box store opening at some shopping mall—somewhere—and she thought that a crowd-pleasing live cooking demonstration by a world-renowned TV chef would be a good venue to simultaneously offer the 3 sheepdog puppies for adoption.
We’d never gotten so far as to actually PLAN OUT how we were going to find really good homes for these little dogs. We couldn’t just raffle them off, obviously, but I couldn’t see making interested “applicants” fill out lengthy forms and then wait until we’d somehow vetted them (for who knows what?).
Anyway… As things had worked out, we weren’t gonna be giving these cute little guys away to anybody. Not today, not ever (I guessed). So we didn’t need to worry about the logistics of the dog giveaway any longer.
BUT…
… As far as I could tell, the TV-station live-remote was still happening, and we’d given our word, so I had to assume that the cooking demo was still a go.
Well, sometimes even WE catch a break. Because not only did Allison answer on the first ring when I called her, it turned out that “the event” was happening almost right across the river (the Rappahannock River) from where we were staying. All we had to do was drive across a bridge into Tappahannock, and we’d be there. We didn’t even have to go into Richmond.
It wasn’t as easy as all that, of course. Not when you’ve gotta corral 8 always-energetic dogs, PLUS 3 now-content-and-determined-to-enjoy-themselves puppies.
Upon hanging up the phone call with Allison, I discovered that breakfast was still ongoing. PLUS, the 3 puppies had cajoled Maggie Scroungehound into giving them their first swimming lesson. In the pool. (At least they hadn’t asked Barnacle Bill. That might not have ended well.)
So I had to “cajole” them into getting out of the pool, not soon after they’d first jumped in. (At least they had courage!) And I managed that only after promising them that they could continue the lesson after we returned form the shopping mall… where they were no longer going to be given away.
So they got out (still grudgingly), and Maggie helped them learn how to use towels to dry off. (They’re sheepdogs, after all, so they instinctively know how shake water off, but they may well learn how to be civilized. Who knows when we might visit a really upscale health club, and need to know how to act properly?)
Getting some of the guys to finish up with the food was a whole ’nother matter. After all the drama and worry of the past 24 hours, some of them were not about to stop eating anytime soon.
You know how some folks eat a lot, when they worry? Well, some of my guys eat a lot, period. Whether they’re worrying, or not worrying, or getting over worrying, or worrying about something starting them worrying… anyway you look at it, they eat. So now that I’d left them “unsupervised” for maybe 20 minutes, they’d lined up multiple courses of food that they not likely to abandon, just because I said we had an appointment to keep.
But eventually, I got everybody reasonably satisfied food-wise, and we took a few more minutes to make sure we were all acceptably groomed. (These guys are actually so self-obsessed and image-conscious, that they don’t need much prodding on the brush-your-teeth, brush-your-coats front. If anything, I have to drag them away from the makeup mirrors.)
And so, finally, we all piled into the Tour Bus and got ourselves settled. Not until I’d taken roll call, of course. Especially with 3 young ones in the group. (We certainly didn’t want to be leaving any of them behind. The last thing we needed was a “Home Alone” scenario playing out.)
And just to make sure that the guys didn’t view this as just another country-road joy ride, I plopped myself down behind the wheel. That’s right: I was going to drive.
And I hate to drive.
So that got their attention.
If nothing else, it proclaimed: “We have somewhere to go, and we have to get there on time. So buckle up.”
(Cuz you never know. That’s why they’re called “accidents.”)
But we still had a cooking demonstration to do, and it looked like we were going to have absolutely great weather for it.
All we had to do was find the shopping mall.
Definitely a must: finding the shopping mall.
So while everybody else was busy chowing down on breakfast (lovingly prepared by Terry and Maggie, so you can almost guess at how “eclectic” the buffet selections must’ve been), I got on the phone and tried to reach Deputy Rick’s wife Allison.
Allison, if you remember, is the manager of a cable-access TV station in Richmond, and it was her idea, initially, to do this cooking demo. Her station had been planning on doing a festive live-remote from a big-box store opening at some shopping mall—somewhere—and she thought that a crowd-pleasing live cooking demonstration by a world-renowned TV chef would be a good venue to simultaneously offer the 3 sheepdog puppies for adoption.
We’d never gotten so far as to actually PLAN OUT how we were going to find really good homes for these little dogs. We couldn’t just raffle them off, obviously, but I couldn’t see making interested “applicants” fill out lengthy forms and then wait until we’d somehow vetted them (for who knows what?).
Anyway… As things had worked out, we weren’t gonna be giving these cute little guys away to anybody. Not today, not ever (I guessed). So we didn’t need to worry about the logistics of the dog giveaway any longer.
BUT…
… As far as I could tell, the TV-station live-remote was still happening, and we’d given our word, so I had to assume that the cooking demo was still a go.
Well, sometimes even WE catch a break. Because not only did Allison answer on the first ring when I called her, it turned out that “the event” was happening almost right across the river (the Rappahannock River) from where we were staying. All we had to do was drive across a bridge into Tappahannock, and we’d be there. We didn’t even have to go into Richmond.
It wasn’t as easy as all that, of course. Not when you’ve gotta corral 8 always-energetic dogs, PLUS 3 now-content-and-determined-to-enjoy-themselves puppies.
Upon hanging up the phone call with Allison, I discovered that breakfast was still ongoing. PLUS, the 3 puppies had cajoled Maggie Scroungehound into giving them their first swimming lesson. In the pool. (At least they hadn’t asked Barnacle Bill. That might not have ended well.)
So I had to “cajole” them into getting out of the pool, not soon after they’d first jumped in. (At least they had courage!) And I managed that only after promising them that they could continue the lesson after we returned form the shopping mall… where they were no longer going to be given away.
So they got out (still grudgingly), and Maggie helped them learn how to use towels to dry off. (They’re sheepdogs, after all, so they instinctively know how shake water off, but they may well learn how to be civilized. Who knows when we might visit a really upscale health club, and need to know how to act properly?)
Getting some of the guys to finish up with the food was a whole ’nother matter. After all the drama and worry of the past 24 hours, some of them were not about to stop eating anytime soon.
You know how some folks eat a lot, when they worry? Well, some of my guys eat a lot, period. Whether they’re worrying, or not worrying, or getting over worrying, or worrying about something starting them worrying… anyway you look at it, they eat. So now that I’d left them “unsupervised” for maybe 20 minutes, they’d lined up multiple courses of food that they not likely to abandon, just because I said we had an appointment to keep.
But eventually, I got everybody reasonably satisfied food-wise, and we took a few more minutes to make sure we were all acceptably groomed. (These guys are actually so self-obsessed and image-conscious, that they don’t need much prodding on the brush-your-teeth, brush-your-coats front. If anything, I have to drag them away from the makeup mirrors.)
And so, finally, we all piled into the Tour Bus and got ourselves settled. Not until I’d taken roll call, of course. Especially with 3 young ones in the group. (We certainly didn’t want to be leaving any of them behind. The last thing we needed was a “Home Alone” scenario playing out.)
And just to make sure that the guys didn’t view this as just another country-road joy ride, I plopped myself down behind the wheel. That’s right: I was going to drive.
And I hate to drive.
So that got their attention.
If nothing else, it proclaimed: “We have somewhere to go, and we have to get there on time. So buckle up.”
(Cuz you never know. That’s why they’re called “accidents.”)
August 27, 2020
So we all got a really good night’s sleep, all of us lying around the living room of Barnacle Bill’s old paragliding buddy Mort’s rundown Tidewater mansion. “All of us” included my 8 guys, plus the 3 sheepdog puppies (Sherman, Tyrone, and Claire), and me, and unlike the night before, it included none of the neighborhood dogs. So it had been nice and cozy. Just the family.
And now it was morning, and we had a hopefully momentous day in front of us. Because we had two big events to look forward to:
First, we had that shopping-mall parking-lot cooking demonstration to do. More specifically: SUZIE had a cooking demo to do. The rest of us were merely gonna be “back-up.”
If we were lucky, the cooking demo would turn out to be great fun. Big wing-ding cooking demos usually are—at least when WE do them.
(I have to admit, my guys are very good at creating any sort of fun. They are, after all, natural-born “hams.” Plus, they feed off of each other. So when you get all 8 of them working together to create a super-fun event, it’s almost a guarantee that it’ll turn out great. Usually: an event to remember.)
And second, we were going to have to sit down and decide where we were going next.
I mean, we couldn’t stay HERE forever. Or even much longer. The suits upstairs at Corporate were going to be demanding RESULTS. SALES! PUBLICITY! NOTORIETY!
Well, maybe not “Notoriety.” We’d had maybe a bit too much “notoriety” recently. As in: all of us getting arrested and spending a night in the slammer—all of us—up in Baltimore.
So yeah, the “suits upstairs” were more just looking for SALES. (And who could blame them? They weren’t having any fun, locked up nose-to-the-grindstone-at-Corporate-Headquarters. WE were the ones out enjoying ourselves, gallivanting all over the country on this all-expenses-paid promotional tour. Tricked-out Tour Bus and all. Of course they were expecting RESULTS!)
So we were going to pack things up here, at “the manse,” and get moving to the next welcoming town down the road. The sooner, the better. (I know that Barnacle Bill had said that Mort, the owner of this palatial dump, was planning on arriving at some point, but that didn’t mean we had to wait for him.)
Or did it? I’d almost forgotten. Bill had said something about Mort’s traveling companion, an old 82nd Airborne crony, being a Hollywood producer. So of course, we’d HAVE to wait for them to arrive. World War III could break out, and we’d have to wait. (Very little, in the dogs’ world, could trump the arrival of a Hollywood movie producer. I told you: they’re born “hams,” and they all dream of becoming major movie stars.)
So I guess we’d have to forego the post-cooking-demo discussion of where to drive off to next. We were stuck here until Mort and his buddy appeared.
I glanced out the back door, and the rippling waters of the Olympic-sized swimming pool practically winked at me, reminding me of how cool and refreshing a dip in the deep end felt after a long day.
So I guess we weren’t going anywhere, anytime soon.
So we all got a really good night’s sleep, all of us lying around the living room of Barnacle Bill’s old paragliding buddy Mort’s rundown Tidewater mansion. “All of us” included my 8 guys, plus the 3 sheepdog puppies (Sherman, Tyrone, and Claire), and me, and unlike the night before, it included none of the neighborhood dogs. So it had been nice and cozy. Just the family.
And now it was morning, and we had a hopefully momentous day in front of us. Because we had two big events to look forward to:
First, we had that shopping-mall parking-lot cooking demonstration to do. More specifically: SUZIE had a cooking demo to do. The rest of us were merely gonna be “back-up.”
If we were lucky, the cooking demo would turn out to be great fun. Big wing-ding cooking demos usually are—at least when WE do them.
(I have to admit, my guys are very good at creating any sort of fun. They are, after all, natural-born “hams.” Plus, they feed off of each other. So when you get all 8 of them working together to create a super-fun event, it’s almost a guarantee that it’ll turn out great. Usually: an event to remember.)
And second, we were going to have to sit down and decide where we were going next.
I mean, we couldn’t stay HERE forever. Or even much longer. The suits upstairs at Corporate were going to be demanding RESULTS. SALES! PUBLICITY! NOTORIETY!
Well, maybe not “Notoriety.” We’d had maybe a bit too much “notoriety” recently. As in: all of us getting arrested and spending a night in the slammer—all of us—up in Baltimore.
So yeah, the “suits upstairs” were more just looking for SALES. (And who could blame them? They weren’t having any fun, locked up nose-to-the-grindstone-at-Corporate-Headquarters. WE were the ones out enjoying ourselves, gallivanting all over the country on this all-expenses-paid promotional tour. Tricked-out Tour Bus and all. Of course they were expecting RESULTS!)
So we were going to pack things up here, at “the manse,” and get moving to the next welcoming town down the road. The sooner, the better. (I know that Barnacle Bill had said that Mort, the owner of this palatial dump, was planning on arriving at some point, but that didn’t mean we had to wait for him.)
Or did it? I’d almost forgotten. Bill had said something about Mort’s traveling companion, an old 82nd Airborne crony, being a Hollywood producer. So of course, we’d HAVE to wait for them to arrive. World War III could break out, and we’d have to wait. (Very little, in the dogs’ world, could trump the arrival of a Hollywood movie producer. I told you: they’re born “hams,” and they all dream of becoming major movie stars.)
So I guess we’d have to forego the post-cooking-demo discussion of where to drive off to next. We were stuck here until Mort and his buddy appeared.
I glanced out the back door, and the rippling waters of the Olympic-sized swimming pool practically winked at me, reminding me of how cool and refreshing a dip in the deep end felt after a long day.
So I guess we weren’t going anywhere, anytime soon.
August 26, 2020
From your perspective, we have apparently reached yet-another of those instances when I start feeling sorry for myself. Making this situation seem way too melodramatic would be bad enough, but fishing for sympathy should be totally out-of-bounds for someone who’s actually GETTING PAID to shepherd this book tour.
What we really needed to be talking about was: What’s best for the kids? (Sherman, Tyrone, and Claire.)
Mona Lassie was the first to point this out. She reminded us that we had a responsibility. We’d promised Deputy Rick that we’d look out for the puppies’ welfare, and that meant more than what might be most convenient for ourselves. She clearly didn’t understand how we could even consider worrying about how the folks at Corporate might feel. WE were THE STARS, after all. Didn’t they take their marching orders FROM US?
(What alternative universe did these dogs live on?)
In no time flat, Mona Lassie had the rest of us feeling pretty poorly of ourselves. (And she did it right there in front of the poor puppies. It was embarrassing.) But she was right. We had to decide what was best for the little ones.
Maybe we should’ve asked them what they thought, right at the very beginning, but it had never occurred to us. Cuz you don’t ask a little baby: “What would you like for supper tonight?” You just don’t. You do what you think is best.
But Mona Lassie very quickly decided that we could certainly ask the puppies their opinion NOW.
And boy, did that ever unleash an avalanche!
Right there in the living room of that run-down Tidewater “mansion,” Sherman, Tyrone, and Claire practically fell over each other trying to tell us what THEY thought.
And none of it should’ve come as a shock. Cuz we heard things that you’d hear from any kid:
“We just want a home.”
“We just want a family.”
“We don’t want to be split up.”
“We don’t wanta hafta go to bed before everyone else.” (Well, I just made that one up, to see if you were paying attention. OF COURSE no kid wants to go to bed early!) (And as I get older, it’s surprising how often I sometimes DO want to go to bed early. Especially when confronted with situations like this.)
We could’ve gone on all night, discussing what to do next. (I don’t know why I was the only one who felt tired. It’d been a long day for everybody.) But I had to let everybody at least have his-or-her say. So I waited until everybody—all 8 of the dogs—had had a chance to express themselves, and then I gave the 3 puppies a second chance to speak their minds, and then I announced that seeing as I was the official (and legal) “Tour Manager,” and as such, was gonna have to be the guy who called Corporate Legal and hashed out whatever was going to happen, I alone was going to make the final call.
Which was:
“So for the moment,” I pronounced, “everybody has to go to bed.”
I looked down at the young puppies, and said directly to them, “Don’t worry. Mona Lassie’s right: We’ll take care of you. We’re not gonna give you away.”
I looked back up at everybody else. “But we’ve still got a cooking demonstration tomorrow, in that parking lot, wherever it is. And I, for one, need some sleep.”
And… mirabile dictu… everybody agreed. We almost never get everyone to agree, on anything. So they must’ve been just as exhausted (what with the worry and the searching and the almost drowning and everything else) as I was.
So we all pretty much just rolled over—right there on the living-room floor-- and went to sleep.
And I dreamed of being a (handsome) mature adult male human being who made ultra-wise decisions as a way of life. Sort of a mix between King Solomon and a movie star.
From your perspective, we have apparently reached yet-another of those instances when I start feeling sorry for myself. Making this situation seem way too melodramatic would be bad enough, but fishing for sympathy should be totally out-of-bounds for someone who’s actually GETTING PAID to shepherd this book tour.
What we really needed to be talking about was: What’s best for the kids? (Sherman, Tyrone, and Claire.)
Mona Lassie was the first to point this out. She reminded us that we had a responsibility. We’d promised Deputy Rick that we’d look out for the puppies’ welfare, and that meant more than what might be most convenient for ourselves. She clearly didn’t understand how we could even consider worrying about how the folks at Corporate might feel. WE were THE STARS, after all. Didn’t they take their marching orders FROM US?
(What alternative universe did these dogs live on?)
In no time flat, Mona Lassie had the rest of us feeling pretty poorly of ourselves. (And she did it right there in front of the poor puppies. It was embarrassing.) But she was right. We had to decide what was best for the little ones.
Maybe we should’ve asked them what they thought, right at the very beginning, but it had never occurred to us. Cuz you don’t ask a little baby: “What would you like for supper tonight?” You just don’t. You do what you think is best.
But Mona Lassie very quickly decided that we could certainly ask the puppies their opinion NOW.
And boy, did that ever unleash an avalanche!
Right there in the living room of that run-down Tidewater “mansion,” Sherman, Tyrone, and Claire practically fell over each other trying to tell us what THEY thought.
And none of it should’ve come as a shock. Cuz we heard things that you’d hear from any kid:
“We just want a home.”
“We just want a family.”
“We don’t want to be split up.”
“We don’t wanta hafta go to bed before everyone else.” (Well, I just made that one up, to see if you were paying attention. OF COURSE no kid wants to go to bed early!) (And as I get older, it’s surprising how often I sometimes DO want to go to bed early. Especially when confronted with situations like this.)
We could’ve gone on all night, discussing what to do next. (I don’t know why I was the only one who felt tired. It’d been a long day for everybody.) But I had to let everybody at least have his-or-her say. So I waited until everybody—all 8 of the dogs—had had a chance to express themselves, and then I gave the 3 puppies a second chance to speak their minds, and then I announced that seeing as I was the official (and legal) “Tour Manager,” and as such, was gonna have to be the guy who called Corporate Legal and hashed out whatever was going to happen, I alone was going to make the final call.
Which was:
“So for the moment,” I pronounced, “everybody has to go to bed.”
I looked down at the young puppies, and said directly to them, “Don’t worry. Mona Lassie’s right: We’ll take care of you. We’re not gonna give you away.”
I looked back up at everybody else. “But we’ve still got a cooking demonstration tomorrow, in that parking lot, wherever it is. And I, for one, need some sleep.”
And… mirabile dictu… everybody agreed. We almost never get everyone to agree, on anything. So they must’ve been just as exhausted (what with the worry and the searching and the almost drowning and everything else) as I was.
So we all pretty much just rolled over—right there on the living-room floor-- and went to sleep.
And I dreamed of being a (handsome) mature adult male human being who made ultra-wise decisions as a way of life. Sort of a mix between King Solomon and a movie star.
August 25, 2020
So what were we going to do? By “us,” I mean: me and the dogs.
The puppies themselves were perfectly fine. We liked them, sort-of. I mean, we really had mostly ignored them, so it’s not like we’d gotten any great bonding going before they’d disappeared. But certainly, none of us disliked them.
But…
“But.” There were so many “buts.”
First off, they were kids, and we were adults. Professional adults. On a corporate-sponsored promotional tour. (I did NOT, really, have to constantly remind myself that this was not an extended vacation. Maybe some of the guys felt that way—some of the time—but for me it was definitely WORK.) (Have you ever had to ride herd—correction: TRY to ride herd—over 8 extremely self-centered cooking prima donnas? Day after day? My advice: Don’t.)
Second, can 8 dogs and one human legally adopt three young sheepdog puppies? I’d have to consult with our lawyers about that. (And this isn’t some “quibbling.” We work for, and represent, a major American corporation, with a reputation to uphold and major conceivable repercussions to face if we misbehave/misrepresent/misfire on our mission.) (So just imagine how our having spent a night in jail up in Baltimore was probably received back at Headquarters.)
Now, I’m sure that the corporate lawyers would be happy to get on the phone and discuss this issue with me. They love to discuss stuff. That’s what they get paid to do.
And it’s entirely possible that the folks in the Marketing Department might smile at all the warm-and-fuzzy feelings that adopting 3 cute young pups might engender in a new advertising campaign.
But I’m also pretty sure that the Top Brass, the suits upstairs who seldom smile, I’m pretty sure they would frown—en masse—at yet another instance of our “getting off-mission.”
Our mission, after all, the reason why the suits upstairs had originally okayed spending gobs of money outfitting the Tour Bus and budgeting all the expense money we show cavalierly throw around, was to promote “The Chow Network.”
And to sell lots of books.
Which we were doing…
… but probably not at the rate (or in the massive numbers) that the folks doing projections down in Bookkeeping would’ve hoped.
Somehow, at least in the short term, adopting 3 puppies in the middle of a road trip would not seem like a good way to increase sales. Sure, long-term it might inflate our image as gentle, caring, lovable-and-loving creatures ourselves, but as you know, American corporations are seldom interested in “long term.” It’s the bottom line that matters, and—forgive me if I’m missing something here—babysitting 3 young puppies did not seem like a great way to increase the bottom line.
(And in retrospect, I think that you’d have to admit that I was probably right.)
(Sometimes—sometimes—I am.)
(Other times, of course, I am wrong.)
(At all times, pretty much, I feel half-crushed by all the responsibility and pressure.)
So what were we going to do? By “us,” I mean: me and the dogs.
The puppies themselves were perfectly fine. We liked them, sort-of. I mean, we really had mostly ignored them, so it’s not like we’d gotten any great bonding going before they’d disappeared. But certainly, none of us disliked them.
But…
“But.” There were so many “buts.”
First off, they were kids, and we were adults. Professional adults. On a corporate-sponsored promotional tour. (I did NOT, really, have to constantly remind myself that this was not an extended vacation. Maybe some of the guys felt that way—some of the time—but for me it was definitely WORK.) (Have you ever had to ride herd—correction: TRY to ride herd—over 8 extremely self-centered cooking prima donnas? Day after day? My advice: Don’t.)
Second, can 8 dogs and one human legally adopt three young sheepdog puppies? I’d have to consult with our lawyers about that. (And this isn’t some “quibbling.” We work for, and represent, a major American corporation, with a reputation to uphold and major conceivable repercussions to face if we misbehave/misrepresent/misfire on our mission.) (So just imagine how our having spent a night in jail up in Baltimore was probably received back at Headquarters.)
Now, I’m sure that the corporate lawyers would be happy to get on the phone and discuss this issue with me. They love to discuss stuff. That’s what they get paid to do.
And it’s entirely possible that the folks in the Marketing Department might smile at all the warm-and-fuzzy feelings that adopting 3 cute young pups might engender in a new advertising campaign.
But I’m also pretty sure that the Top Brass, the suits upstairs who seldom smile, I’m pretty sure they would frown—en masse—at yet another instance of our “getting off-mission.”
Our mission, after all, the reason why the suits upstairs had originally okayed spending gobs of money outfitting the Tour Bus and budgeting all the expense money we show cavalierly throw around, was to promote “The Chow Network.”
And to sell lots of books.
Which we were doing…
… but probably not at the rate (or in the massive numbers) that the folks doing projections down in Bookkeeping would’ve hoped.
Somehow, at least in the short term, adopting 3 puppies in the middle of a road trip would not seem like a good way to increase sales. Sure, long-term it might inflate our image as gentle, caring, lovable-and-loving creatures ourselves, but as you know, American corporations are seldom interested in “long term.” It’s the bottom line that matters, and—forgive me if I’m missing something here—babysitting 3 young puppies did not seem like a great way to increase the bottom line.
(And in retrospect, I think that you’d have to admit that I was probably right.)
(Sometimes—sometimes—I am.)
(Other times, of course, I am wrong.)
(At all times, pretty much, I feel half-crushed by all the responsibility and pressure.)
August 24, 2020
Sherman, Tyrone, Claire.
Huh?
That’s right. Those were/are their names. Sherman, Tyrone, and Claire.
It wasn’t tough getting that info out of them, once somebody took the trouble to ask.
Dogs being dogs, and thus being probably way more reticent about prying into somebody else’s business than most human beings, we didn’t learn a lot more about their “heritage.” Things like: “Do you remember your parents?” “Do you have other brothers and sisters? Aunts and uncles?” And in this case: “What exactly happened at that house where Deputy Rick had to answer a ‘domestic disturbance’ call, then found you and decided that he’d have to find you a better ‘living arrangement?’”
It was obvious that the puppies were most concerned with the possibility that they might be split up. Sent to separate “living situations.”
It was a big motivator for why they’d run away.
And they wanted us to understand: They HADN’T really run away. Sure, it looked that way, because we couldn’t find them.
But they were actually trying to STOW AWAY. That’s why they were in the Tour Bus.
They figured that, sooner or later, we’d pack up our stuff and drive off somewhere else. As in: The next stop on “The Tour.”
And they knew (they’d overheard) that we’d concocted tomorrow’s (Saturday’s) shopping-mall parking-lot cooking demonstration (featuring Suzie) so that, after we’d attracted a big crowd, we could find some good folks to adopt them. “Them” meaning: the 3 sheepdog puppies.
And the 3 sheepdog puppies didn’t want to be adopted by anybody.
Except by US. “Us” being: Fifi, Butch, Mona Lassie (who wouldn’t want to be adopted by Mona Lassie?), Terry, Suzie, Barnacle Bill, Maggie, and Howie.
Maybe not Howie so much. But then, the three puppies didn’t know Howie. He grows on you. For all his exterior gruffness, you soon learn that it’s all a façade. He’s really a sweetheart underneath that steel-wool and battle scars.
So Sherman, Tyrone, and Claire figured that if we drove them to that shopping mall (and I didn’t even know where it was, exactly) tomorrow morning, they were goners. Good-and-goners. They’d most likely be split up and sent to 3 separate families, and they’d never see each other again—or us.
And they liked us.
Sure, they admitted, we’d ignored them pretty the whole time since Deputy Rick had dumped them on us, but being kids, they understood that there were far worse fates than simply being ignored. (Do YOU remember elementary school?)
So they’d decided not to run away, but to hide out. STOW AWAY. In The Tour Bus.
Cuz if we couldn’t find them, we’d eventually leave town and unwittingly take them with us.
Which would’ve been perfect, from their point of view.
Cuz them we would’ve been STUCK WITH THEM!
So even if we didn’t love them, they’d be a FAIT ACCOMPLI.
(How did kids this young know words like that?)
Sherman, Tyrone, Claire.
Huh?
That’s right. Those were/are their names. Sherman, Tyrone, and Claire.
It wasn’t tough getting that info out of them, once somebody took the trouble to ask.
Dogs being dogs, and thus being probably way more reticent about prying into somebody else’s business than most human beings, we didn’t learn a lot more about their “heritage.” Things like: “Do you remember your parents?” “Do you have other brothers and sisters? Aunts and uncles?” And in this case: “What exactly happened at that house where Deputy Rick had to answer a ‘domestic disturbance’ call, then found you and decided that he’d have to find you a better ‘living arrangement?’”
It was obvious that the puppies were most concerned with the possibility that they might be split up. Sent to separate “living situations.”
It was a big motivator for why they’d run away.
And they wanted us to understand: They HADN’T really run away. Sure, it looked that way, because we couldn’t find them.
But they were actually trying to STOW AWAY. That’s why they were in the Tour Bus.
They figured that, sooner or later, we’d pack up our stuff and drive off somewhere else. As in: The next stop on “The Tour.”
And they knew (they’d overheard) that we’d concocted tomorrow’s (Saturday’s) shopping-mall parking-lot cooking demonstration (featuring Suzie) so that, after we’d attracted a big crowd, we could find some good folks to adopt them. “Them” meaning: the 3 sheepdog puppies.
And the 3 sheepdog puppies didn’t want to be adopted by anybody.
Except by US. “Us” being: Fifi, Butch, Mona Lassie (who wouldn’t want to be adopted by Mona Lassie?), Terry, Suzie, Barnacle Bill, Maggie, and Howie.
Maybe not Howie so much. But then, the three puppies didn’t know Howie. He grows on you. For all his exterior gruffness, you soon learn that it’s all a façade. He’s really a sweetheart underneath that steel-wool and battle scars.
So Sherman, Tyrone, and Claire figured that if we drove them to that shopping mall (and I didn’t even know where it was, exactly) tomorrow morning, they were goners. Good-and-goners. They’d most likely be split up and sent to 3 separate families, and they’d never see each other again—or us.
And they liked us.
Sure, they admitted, we’d ignored them pretty the whole time since Deputy Rick had dumped them on us, but being kids, they understood that there were far worse fates than simply being ignored. (Do YOU remember elementary school?)
So they’d decided not to run away, but to hide out. STOW AWAY. In The Tour Bus.
Cuz if we couldn’t find them, we’d eventually leave town and unwittingly take them with us.
Which would’ve been perfect, from their point of view.
Cuz them we would’ve been STUCK WITH THEM!
So even if we didn’t love them, they’d be a FAIT ACCOMPLI.
(How did kids this young know words like that?)
August 20, 2020
To repeat: It can’t all be fun-and-games.
Well, it COULD be, somewhere, in some parallel universe, but not in OUR universe. Which is THIS universe.
So we had to address some serious issues with the pups.
(And they must’ve known that this was coming.)
Because you can’t just ADOPT three sheepdog puppies without putting any thought into it or getting the proper papers, or going to the vet and getting them checked out.
PLUS, there’s always SHOTS.
That’s right. There’s always shots.
Which nobody likes. But it’s a fact of life, something that you have to do, or else something even worse will happen. Meaning: even more trips to the vet.
But first…
First, before everybody started falling asleep…
You see, we were all sprawled out on the living room floor (and couches, and big comfy chairs), after having eaten all sorts of junk food, and worse. (Plus sugary drinks, which probably wasn’t such a good idea, so close to bedtime. There’d undoubtedly be a ton of unscheduled trips outside to pee in the middle of the night. But, look at the bright side! At least we weren’t in The Bus!)
So we all seemed to realize that we’d better get “the interrogation” over with BEFORE we all fell sleep.
And since Howie’d been pretty much in charge of the search-and-rescue effort (even though Maggie had been the one who’d eventually saved the 3 young pups from drowning in the swimming pool), it seemed to make sense to let him preside over the proceedings, such as they were going to be.
So… first topic:
Howie cleared his throat, shook his head, and stared down at the 3 semi-frightened puppies who were sitting on the floor, directly in front of the semi-blazing fire in the fireplace. I think he was aiming for a courtroom demeanor that was simultaneously stern yet compassionate.
“Okay,” he began, looking down at the puppies. “We’ve got a number of issues to get through, if we can. If we can stay awake, I mean.” He paused, and gave the little ones with soft smile. “I know it’s certainly past YOUR bedtime.”
The three puppies smiled a little and nodded their heads. They really did look like they might drop off to sleep at any moment. But still… We had to get through this.
“So,” Howie continued, “we can’t very well move along until we’ve settled at least a few things.”
He looked over at me. “I’ve already explained how we can’t take any of this up with Deputy Rick. He’s been very good to us, so far, and he’s the one who turned you three tykes over to us in the first place, but you do have to realize RULE ONE.
“RULE ONE: We take care of our own. Period. Cops are all well-and-good for cops-and-robbers, maybe, but when it comes to us dogs, cops are basically the same as ‘Animal Control.’”
He paused as a shiver went down the back of every dog in the room. Obviously: Enough said. We weren’t calling Deputy Rick in on this, no matter what transpired.
Howie continued. “I don’t know what Rule two would be, but this next thing I think has to come next. Just has to.”
His voice dropped into a semi-apologetic tone. “Now, this is probably our fault. I mean, the fact that it happened. Or at least that it happened the way it did and nobody did anything about it. So this is embarrassing, and I apologize to you three youngsters for this, but I have to ask you something. Which we should’ve asked you right at the beginning. I mean, right when Deputy Rick brought you to us.”
The three sheepdog puppies nodded their heads. They seemed like they wanted to be helpful, and Howie’s quiet tone seemed to have helped them get over their fear. A little bit, at least.
So Howie kept going. “So I’ll ask you straight out. Real simple. We should’ve done this right off the bat.” He paused, glanced at me. “Actually, JOHN should’ve asked this, and he didn’t. You’d think—“
He shook his head. “Well, it’s too late now. No use cryin’ over soggy treats.”
The other dogs decided that now it was THEIR turn to nod their heads. Of course: Who wouldn’t agree that this was all JOHN’S fault? Right? So there they sat, all smug and comfy and nodding their heads and wagging their tongues in agreement. It was decided: This was all JOHN’S fault.
Well, we went on. Howie went on.
“So here’s the question…”
He looked down at the 3 little puppies benevolently.
“What are your names?”
To repeat: It can’t all be fun-and-games.
Well, it COULD be, somewhere, in some parallel universe, but not in OUR universe. Which is THIS universe.
So we had to address some serious issues with the pups.
(And they must’ve known that this was coming.)
Because you can’t just ADOPT three sheepdog puppies without putting any thought into it or getting the proper papers, or going to the vet and getting them checked out.
PLUS, there’s always SHOTS.
That’s right. There’s always shots.
Which nobody likes. But it’s a fact of life, something that you have to do, or else something even worse will happen. Meaning: even more trips to the vet.
But first…
First, before everybody started falling asleep…
You see, we were all sprawled out on the living room floor (and couches, and big comfy chairs), after having eaten all sorts of junk food, and worse. (Plus sugary drinks, which probably wasn’t such a good idea, so close to bedtime. There’d undoubtedly be a ton of unscheduled trips outside to pee in the middle of the night. But, look at the bright side! At least we weren’t in The Bus!)
So we all seemed to realize that we’d better get “the interrogation” over with BEFORE we all fell sleep.
And since Howie’d been pretty much in charge of the search-and-rescue effort (even though Maggie had been the one who’d eventually saved the 3 young pups from drowning in the swimming pool), it seemed to make sense to let him preside over the proceedings, such as they were going to be.
So… first topic:
Howie cleared his throat, shook his head, and stared down at the 3 semi-frightened puppies who were sitting on the floor, directly in front of the semi-blazing fire in the fireplace. I think he was aiming for a courtroom demeanor that was simultaneously stern yet compassionate.
“Okay,” he began, looking down at the puppies. “We’ve got a number of issues to get through, if we can. If we can stay awake, I mean.” He paused, and gave the little ones with soft smile. “I know it’s certainly past YOUR bedtime.”
The three puppies smiled a little and nodded their heads. They really did look like they might drop off to sleep at any moment. But still… We had to get through this.
“So,” Howie continued, “we can’t very well move along until we’ve settled at least a few things.”
He looked over at me. “I’ve already explained how we can’t take any of this up with Deputy Rick. He’s been very good to us, so far, and he’s the one who turned you three tykes over to us in the first place, but you do have to realize RULE ONE.
“RULE ONE: We take care of our own. Period. Cops are all well-and-good for cops-and-robbers, maybe, but when it comes to us dogs, cops are basically the same as ‘Animal Control.’”
He paused as a shiver went down the back of every dog in the room. Obviously: Enough said. We weren’t calling Deputy Rick in on this, no matter what transpired.
Howie continued. “I don’t know what Rule two would be, but this next thing I think has to come next. Just has to.”
His voice dropped into a semi-apologetic tone. “Now, this is probably our fault. I mean, the fact that it happened. Or at least that it happened the way it did and nobody did anything about it. So this is embarrassing, and I apologize to you three youngsters for this, but I have to ask you something. Which we should’ve asked you right at the beginning. I mean, right when Deputy Rick brought you to us.”
The three sheepdog puppies nodded their heads. They seemed like they wanted to be helpful, and Howie’s quiet tone seemed to have helped them get over their fear. A little bit, at least.
So Howie kept going. “So I’ll ask you straight out. Real simple. We should’ve done this right off the bat.” He paused, glanced at me. “Actually, JOHN should’ve asked this, and he didn’t. You’d think—“
He shook his head. “Well, it’s too late now. No use cryin’ over soggy treats.”
The other dogs decided that now it was THEIR turn to nod their heads. Of course: Who wouldn’t agree that this was all JOHN’S fault? Right? So there they sat, all smug and comfy and nodding their heads and wagging their tongues in agreement. It was decided: This was all JOHN’S fault.
Well, we went on. Howie went on.
“So here’s the question…”
He looked down at the 3 little puppies benevolently.
“What are your names?”
August 19, 2020
So we had a lot of fun driving around, singing songs and laughing it up. I think that made the sheepdog puppies feel better. Semi-official members of the gang.
Normally, when we have “guests” traveling with us, we ask them to teach us any new songs that they might know and that we don’t. The puppies didn’t seem to know any, which was mildly disappointing, but they’re puppies, after all. So they didn’t have anything to share, but they more than made up for it with their general enthusiasm level.
And fortunately for us, the Tour Bus is equipped with a really good GPS, so no matter how far away Barnacle Bill drives, or what twisted lanes he decides to pursue, “The Bus” can always find its way home.
And so it was that night. I think Bill was so busy singing along with the rest of us, that he basically put the Bus on auto-pilot when it came time to head home.
And it worked.
So we parked The Beast out front of Mort’s “mansion,” tromped inside and tore the kitchen apart looking for something to eat. (I’d sorta forgotten that we really hadn’t had anything to eat—at all—since lunch. And these guys do not like to travel on empty stomachs.)
And so, before long, the sun had set, the surrounding neighborhood (and swamp) had grown dark—pitch dark-- and the living room was totally cluttered with half-eaten Cheetos bags and hot-dog wrappers, bottles of Cheez Whiz and sweet relish, pop cans and watermelon rinds. Someone started a fire in the fireplace, and we all settled in for “dessert” and some important conversation.
Because even though we’d had a more-than-pleasant time riding around with the 3 sheepdog puppies in the Tour Bus, singing songs and mooning passing cars out the back-door window, there were some very important things that needed to be said, some serious issues that had to be addressed…
… what with our apparent decision to…
… sort-of…
… adopt these 3 cute young waifs.
I mean, it can’t all be fun-and-games.
So we had a lot of fun driving around, singing songs and laughing it up. I think that made the sheepdog puppies feel better. Semi-official members of the gang.
Normally, when we have “guests” traveling with us, we ask them to teach us any new songs that they might know and that we don’t. The puppies didn’t seem to know any, which was mildly disappointing, but they’re puppies, after all. So they didn’t have anything to share, but they more than made up for it with their general enthusiasm level.
And fortunately for us, the Tour Bus is equipped with a really good GPS, so no matter how far away Barnacle Bill drives, or what twisted lanes he decides to pursue, “The Bus” can always find its way home.
And so it was that night. I think Bill was so busy singing along with the rest of us, that he basically put the Bus on auto-pilot when it came time to head home.
And it worked.
So we parked The Beast out front of Mort’s “mansion,” tromped inside and tore the kitchen apart looking for something to eat. (I’d sorta forgotten that we really hadn’t had anything to eat—at all—since lunch. And these guys do not like to travel on empty stomachs.)
And so, before long, the sun had set, the surrounding neighborhood (and swamp) had grown dark—pitch dark-- and the living room was totally cluttered with half-eaten Cheetos bags and hot-dog wrappers, bottles of Cheez Whiz and sweet relish, pop cans and watermelon rinds. Someone started a fire in the fireplace, and we all settled in for “dessert” and some important conversation.
Because even though we’d had a more-than-pleasant time riding around with the 3 sheepdog puppies in the Tour Bus, singing songs and mooning passing cars out the back-door window, there were some very important things that needed to be said, some serious issues that had to be addressed…
… what with our apparent decision to…
… sort-of…
… adopt these 3 cute young waifs.
I mean, it can’t all be fun-and-games.
August 18, 2020
I wouldn’t be surprised if your first reaction, upon hearing Suzie’s suggestion, “How about we all go bowling?” might’ve been one of incredulity and/or astonishment.
I mean, picture this: 8 fully-grown canines (along with the 3 sheepdog puppies, no doubt) rolling up a storm at your local lanes. Paws skittering across the laminated wood, nudging their balls frantically forward with their snouts—or maybe their front paws—and then hanging precariously at the foul line while their balls spun ever-so-slowly down the polished lane, inching their ways towards the pins that were just waiting to be knocked over.
Talk about slow-motion sports.
And of course, we would’ve had to have requested that the folks who ran the bowling alley put those kid bumpers in the gutters, like you see them use for childrens’ birthday parties…
… and I assume that you have to request that beforehand. So we would’ve had to call ahead-of-time to ask them to do that for us…
… and seeing as how this idea/suggestion of Suzie’s was, almost by definition, “spur of the moment…”
… we were never gonna have THAT happen.
So… no bumper bowling.
Only serious, adults-only bowling.
Like you see on TV, with real pros who can really knock ’em flying.
Which would NEVER… EVER… be us. Never in your wildest dreams.
So why, then, would Suzie even make such a suggestion?
And why would that suggestion be so unanimously acclaimed? As pure genius? As the exact proper activity for us to pursue, just at this trying moment?
Because this suggestion, those very words, were basically “code.” As in: Yes, the words were perfectly good English-language words. “How about we all go bowling?” were indeed words which should be decipherable by any English-speaking person. It was just that, in our case—in the case of these 8 dogs plus this one human Tour Manager (me)—in our case those words didn’t mean what anyone else would think that they meant.
Well, actually, they COULD mean that. And we wouldn’t disagree that they SHOULD mean that. But in our case, especially in a circumstance like the present one, those words DIDN’T mean what they seemed to mean.
They meant something else.
What they meant, in this case, was:
Let’s all hop in the bus and ride around.
Sure, maybe we’ll try to find out where the nearest bowling alley is… Maybe we’ll even head over in that direction… But we’re not going inside.
I mean (we would each say to ourselves), get real. Who ever heard of fully-grown dogs going bowling? We might go HUNTING. Sure. We might go for a really brisk RUN. We might even chase a Frisbee around a park. But BOWLING? Don’t be ridiculous.
So, you see, this suggestion of Suzie’s was mere “code” for “Let’s go for a ride!”
I think the sheepdog puppies caught on pretty quick. There wasn’t gonna be any real bowling. We were just gonna go for a ride. Stick our heads our the window and yell our heads off. That’s probably way more fun—and less taxing—than bowling, anyway.
Plus, you can’t get hurt.
So there’s that.
So that’s what we did.
We all jumped on the Tour Bus. Barnacle Bill plunked himself down behind the wheel. And off we went!
And we rode around and rode around. Stuck our heads out the windows. Yelled our heads off.
And when we got tired of doing that, we settled back down and sang a bunch of songs. Old true favorites. Around-the-campfire-type songs. The ones where everybody knows the words (even the puppies).
And when we got tired of singing, we opened the windows back up. Stuck our heads out. Yelled some more.
Boy, were we hoarse when we finally made it back home!
But it was worth it! Barnacle Bill did a good job of driving. And we never really got lost. And the one time a cop in a cop car looked at us funny, we just shut up for a while and he drove on by us.
So we didn’t even have to go to jail.
Which is always a plus.
I wouldn’t be surprised if your first reaction, upon hearing Suzie’s suggestion, “How about we all go bowling?” might’ve been one of incredulity and/or astonishment.
I mean, picture this: 8 fully-grown canines (along with the 3 sheepdog puppies, no doubt) rolling up a storm at your local lanes. Paws skittering across the laminated wood, nudging their balls frantically forward with their snouts—or maybe their front paws—and then hanging precariously at the foul line while their balls spun ever-so-slowly down the polished lane, inching their ways towards the pins that were just waiting to be knocked over.
Talk about slow-motion sports.
And of course, we would’ve had to have requested that the folks who ran the bowling alley put those kid bumpers in the gutters, like you see them use for childrens’ birthday parties…
… and I assume that you have to request that beforehand. So we would’ve had to call ahead-of-time to ask them to do that for us…
… and seeing as how this idea/suggestion of Suzie’s was, almost by definition, “spur of the moment…”
… we were never gonna have THAT happen.
So… no bumper bowling.
Only serious, adults-only bowling.
Like you see on TV, with real pros who can really knock ’em flying.
Which would NEVER… EVER… be us. Never in your wildest dreams.
So why, then, would Suzie even make such a suggestion?
And why would that suggestion be so unanimously acclaimed? As pure genius? As the exact proper activity for us to pursue, just at this trying moment?
Because this suggestion, those very words, were basically “code.” As in: Yes, the words were perfectly good English-language words. “How about we all go bowling?” were indeed words which should be decipherable by any English-speaking person. It was just that, in our case—in the case of these 8 dogs plus this one human Tour Manager (me)—in our case those words didn’t mean what anyone else would think that they meant.
Well, actually, they COULD mean that. And we wouldn’t disagree that they SHOULD mean that. But in our case, especially in a circumstance like the present one, those words DIDN’T mean what they seemed to mean.
They meant something else.
What they meant, in this case, was:
Let’s all hop in the bus and ride around.
Sure, maybe we’ll try to find out where the nearest bowling alley is… Maybe we’ll even head over in that direction… But we’re not going inside.
I mean (we would each say to ourselves), get real. Who ever heard of fully-grown dogs going bowling? We might go HUNTING. Sure. We might go for a really brisk RUN. We might even chase a Frisbee around a park. But BOWLING? Don’t be ridiculous.
So, you see, this suggestion of Suzie’s was mere “code” for “Let’s go for a ride!”
I think the sheepdog puppies caught on pretty quick. There wasn’t gonna be any real bowling. We were just gonna go for a ride. Stick our heads our the window and yell our heads off. That’s probably way more fun—and less taxing—than bowling, anyway.
Plus, you can’t get hurt.
So there’s that.
So that’s what we did.
We all jumped on the Tour Bus. Barnacle Bill plunked himself down behind the wheel. And off we went!
And we rode around and rode around. Stuck our heads out the windows. Yelled our heads off.
And when we got tired of doing that, we settled back down and sang a bunch of songs. Old true favorites. Around-the-campfire-type songs. The ones where everybody knows the words (even the puppies).
And when we got tired of singing, we opened the windows back up. Stuck our heads out. Yelled some more.
Boy, were we hoarse when we finally made it back home!
But it was worth it! Barnacle Bill did a good job of driving. And we never really got lost. And the one time a cop in a cop car looked at us funny, we just shut up for a while and he drove on by us.
So we didn’t even have to go to jail.
Which is always a plus.
August 17, 2020
There had to be a way. Of course there was a way. There had to be.
I mean, we couldn’t turn our backs on Howie’s promise. There was no “well, we thought about it, and decided that it just wasn’t gonna work” get-out-of-jail card. (Very funny. We’d just gotten out of jail, real-time, real-world, the day before.)
But we also had to face REALITY. We were supposed to be conducting a “whirlwind” tour of America. In a manner of speaking. I mean, we weren’t rushing from one place to the next. In fact, we had no pre-planned itinerary. Or agenda. The Plan, such as it was, had been, right from the get-go, that we would simply (simply) motor around the country in our tricked-out Tour Bus, stop wherever we chose, try to make new contacts, new friends, sell a bunch of cookbooks and promote the heck out of our TV shows (and The Network in general), and have it all not cost the folks back at Corporate an arm and a leg.
Cuz the folks back at Corporate (i.e., “the suits’) did not like spending money. Especially: on us. Especially: if we weren’t gonna make money for them.
Which we hadn’t been doing too much of, lately. (To say nothing about having spent a night in the pokey, up in Baltimore. I still hadn’t heard anything—not a word—from anyone from “Upstairs at HQ” about that little embarrassment.)
And now, on top of us not performing very well, revenue- and publicity-wise, how did we think that the folks at Corporate would react, when they found out that we’d started adopting children? Puppies?
What, after all, did we know about raising puppies? Aside from all those “3 Men and a Baby”-type movies we had on DVD, for late-night viewing in the back of The Bus. You know, light comedies to pass the time. Sure, they were funny, but we hadn’t learned anything from watching them.
And sure, Mona Lassie had raised who knows how many broods of dogs over the years. But even then, she had all the guys at the firehouse to help her out. (And Bruno, I suppose. You know, her husband. He probably helped out a bit.)
But that was then, and this was now. And here. Which meant: A traveling road show.
Very much like the circus.
And we all know: The circus is no place to raise a child.
Unless you’re an elephant, I suppose. I mean, in this country, at least, if you’re an elephant, there’s only two options: the circus, or a zoo. Would you want to live at a zoo? I know I wouldn’t. But you’re sure not gonna find some nice, comfy suburban family to take you in. And I doubt that too many farmers would be open to an elephant trampling all over the newly-tilled fields, just to go for a walk, so you’d never think of getting adopted by Farmer John. And could you imagine trying to live in a big city? As an elephant. You couldn’t even go to the store without causing a major panic. Much less trying to actually get someplace. Like taking the subway, or a bus, or trotting down an expressway.
But for our purposes, for a young dog’s purposes (much less three young dogs), a barnstorming circus like ours was simply no place to grow up.
So we were goung to have to think of something else. “Plan B.”
I don’t know how long these thoughts were rumbling through my brain, but I do know (from the relative silence that had descended upon the entire group of us) that similar thoughts must have been occupying the brains of the other 8 guys in our troupe, as we stood outside the house, by the swimming pool.
By now the little sheepdog puppies were pretty much dried-out (after having been rescued from drowning by Maggie Scroungehound, our ace Yellow Lab/consummate swimmer), and so somebody was gonna have to say something.
Ideally, something about “Plan B.”
Well, eventually, after what seemed like a good half-hour’s worth of relative silence, somebody DID speak up. Somebody DID say something.
Not anything anywhere near what I would’ve considered “Plan B,” but at least somebody said SOMETHING.
It was Suzie. Suzie Snow Peas. Our oriental-cuisine specialist and inveterate traveler. The one whose “Dorm Room Stir-Fry: UCLA!” re-runs had become such a cable-TV staple, the one who invented the shipboard cooking classes that became known, simply, as “Suzie Cruises,” the one who would crash wedding receptions just because she was staying at the same hotel, and then liven things up with an impromptu one-wok cooking demonstrations (for complete strangers), the one who liked to remind us all that the Chinese word for noodles is “FUN!”
Yeah, that one. Suzie Snow Peas. The one who was always looking to brighten up your day.
So when we were just standing there, beside the swimming pool, lost in our (individual) thoughts, perhaps mulling over various “Plan B” alternatives, she piped up and said,
“How about we all go bowling?”
There had to be a way. Of course there was a way. There had to be.
I mean, we couldn’t turn our backs on Howie’s promise. There was no “well, we thought about it, and decided that it just wasn’t gonna work” get-out-of-jail card. (Very funny. We’d just gotten out of jail, real-time, real-world, the day before.)
But we also had to face REALITY. We were supposed to be conducting a “whirlwind” tour of America. In a manner of speaking. I mean, we weren’t rushing from one place to the next. In fact, we had no pre-planned itinerary. Or agenda. The Plan, such as it was, had been, right from the get-go, that we would simply (simply) motor around the country in our tricked-out Tour Bus, stop wherever we chose, try to make new contacts, new friends, sell a bunch of cookbooks and promote the heck out of our TV shows (and The Network in general), and have it all not cost the folks back at Corporate an arm and a leg.
Cuz the folks back at Corporate (i.e., “the suits’) did not like spending money. Especially: on us. Especially: if we weren’t gonna make money for them.
Which we hadn’t been doing too much of, lately. (To say nothing about having spent a night in the pokey, up in Baltimore. I still hadn’t heard anything—not a word—from anyone from “Upstairs at HQ” about that little embarrassment.)
And now, on top of us not performing very well, revenue- and publicity-wise, how did we think that the folks at Corporate would react, when they found out that we’d started adopting children? Puppies?
What, after all, did we know about raising puppies? Aside from all those “3 Men and a Baby”-type movies we had on DVD, for late-night viewing in the back of The Bus. You know, light comedies to pass the time. Sure, they were funny, but we hadn’t learned anything from watching them.
And sure, Mona Lassie had raised who knows how many broods of dogs over the years. But even then, she had all the guys at the firehouse to help her out. (And Bruno, I suppose. You know, her husband. He probably helped out a bit.)
But that was then, and this was now. And here. Which meant: A traveling road show.
Very much like the circus.
And we all know: The circus is no place to raise a child.
Unless you’re an elephant, I suppose. I mean, in this country, at least, if you’re an elephant, there’s only two options: the circus, or a zoo. Would you want to live at a zoo? I know I wouldn’t. But you’re sure not gonna find some nice, comfy suburban family to take you in. And I doubt that too many farmers would be open to an elephant trampling all over the newly-tilled fields, just to go for a walk, so you’d never think of getting adopted by Farmer John. And could you imagine trying to live in a big city? As an elephant. You couldn’t even go to the store without causing a major panic. Much less trying to actually get someplace. Like taking the subway, or a bus, or trotting down an expressway.
But for our purposes, for a young dog’s purposes (much less three young dogs), a barnstorming circus like ours was simply no place to grow up.
So we were goung to have to think of something else. “Plan B.”
I don’t know how long these thoughts were rumbling through my brain, but I do know (from the relative silence that had descended upon the entire group of us) that similar thoughts must have been occupying the brains of the other 8 guys in our troupe, as we stood outside the house, by the swimming pool.
By now the little sheepdog puppies were pretty much dried-out (after having been rescued from drowning by Maggie Scroungehound, our ace Yellow Lab/consummate swimmer), and so somebody was gonna have to say something.
Ideally, something about “Plan B.”
Well, eventually, after what seemed like a good half-hour’s worth of relative silence, somebody DID speak up. Somebody DID say something.
Not anything anywhere near what I would’ve considered “Plan B,” but at least somebody said SOMETHING.
It was Suzie. Suzie Snow Peas. Our oriental-cuisine specialist and inveterate traveler. The one whose “Dorm Room Stir-Fry: UCLA!” re-runs had become such a cable-TV staple, the one who invented the shipboard cooking classes that became known, simply, as “Suzie Cruises,” the one who would crash wedding receptions just because she was staying at the same hotel, and then liven things up with an impromptu one-wok cooking demonstrations (for complete strangers), the one who liked to remind us all that the Chinese word for noodles is “FUN!”
Yeah, that one. Suzie Snow Peas. The one who was always looking to brighten up your day.
So when we were just standing there, beside the swimming pool, lost in our (individual) thoughts, perhaps mulling over various “Plan B” alternatives, she piped up and said,
“How about we all go bowling?”
August 14, 2020
At which notion, we all paused.
Sure, they were cute. There was no denying that. But we were ON TOUR, for cryin’ out loud. We weren’t foster parents, or babysitters. We were adults…
… professional chefs…
… world-famous celebrities…
… well, not me, of course. But the other guys. Fifi, Butch, Mona Lassie, Terry, and the others…
… and we were ON TOUR.
Right? We weren’t on vacation. We weren’t driving around the Eastern seaboard scouting for talent, looking to adopt foundlings, trying to make the world a better place---
Well, of course we were trying to make the world a better place. But our idea of “making the world a better place” was pretty much analogous to “us making a lot of money.”
Which might sound selfish…
But what of it? We’d bought this super-expensive Tour Bus. Then rigged it out so it’d be comfortable enough to support the massive egos of 8 master chefs, 8 geniuses who were used to ordering around huge kitchen staffs (and anyone else who would listen) and commanding huge ratings with their shows on The Chow Network.
And face it, WE hadn’t paid for The Bus. WE weren’t paying our expenses out-of-pocket. WE were STARS. The Network paid for everything. But that didn’t mean that could do whatever we liked. Every day I had to field calls from “Corporate” about what we were doing. Whether we were actually selling any books or promoting The Network responsibly. (See: the night we spent in jail in Baltimore. Not a good look.)
We were supposed to be making fabulous public appearances. Local TV, radio, newspaper interviews, visits to schools and hospitals, all of that. NOT playing collective nursemaids to 3 (admittedly adorable) sheepdog puppies. Of questionable lineage. (Not that that should matter, too much. We weren’t the Westminster Dog Show, after all. Pretty prancing poodles and all that. Our creed was: A mutt’s poop don’t stink any worse than a pure-bred’s.) (I just made that up. We’d never say anything like that.)
But the point was: We couldn’t just adopt these 3 little puppies without, maybe, putting some thought into it.
But then Howie goes and promises them that we’d care for them forever.
How were we gonna get out of this one?
At which notion, we all paused.
Sure, they were cute. There was no denying that. But we were ON TOUR, for cryin’ out loud. We weren’t foster parents, or babysitters. We were adults…
… professional chefs…
… world-famous celebrities…
… well, not me, of course. But the other guys. Fifi, Butch, Mona Lassie, Terry, and the others…
… and we were ON TOUR.
Right? We weren’t on vacation. We weren’t driving around the Eastern seaboard scouting for talent, looking to adopt foundlings, trying to make the world a better place---
Well, of course we were trying to make the world a better place. But our idea of “making the world a better place” was pretty much analogous to “us making a lot of money.”
Which might sound selfish…
But what of it? We’d bought this super-expensive Tour Bus. Then rigged it out so it’d be comfortable enough to support the massive egos of 8 master chefs, 8 geniuses who were used to ordering around huge kitchen staffs (and anyone else who would listen) and commanding huge ratings with their shows on The Chow Network.
And face it, WE hadn’t paid for The Bus. WE weren’t paying our expenses out-of-pocket. WE were STARS. The Network paid for everything. But that didn’t mean that could do whatever we liked. Every day I had to field calls from “Corporate” about what we were doing. Whether we were actually selling any books or promoting The Network responsibly. (See: the night we spent in jail in Baltimore. Not a good look.)
We were supposed to be making fabulous public appearances. Local TV, radio, newspaper interviews, visits to schools and hospitals, all of that. NOT playing collective nursemaids to 3 (admittedly adorable) sheepdog puppies. Of questionable lineage. (Not that that should matter, too much. We weren’t the Westminster Dog Show, after all. Pretty prancing poodles and all that. Our creed was: A mutt’s poop don’t stink any worse than a pure-bred’s.) (I just made that up. We’d never say anything like that.)
But the point was: We couldn’t just adopt these 3 little puppies without, maybe, putting some thought into it.
But then Howie goes and promises them that we’d care for them forever.
How were we gonna get out of this one?
August 13, 2020
“So we’re gonna go forward,” Howie went on. “Together. All of us. Together.”
He looked down at the 3 sheepdog puppies. “So… you guys have anything to say for yourselves?”
He wasn’t trying to be intimidating, but you know, he’s a pretty big-sized German Shepherd, and even after all this time having escaped the streets of Chicago, he’s got some mean-looking battle scars, lumps of fur missing, and a piece of his right. (Which is why he always wants to be photographed on his left side. He’s really self-conscious about what he refers to as his “sun-crazed pirate look.”)
So Howie wasn’t trying to put the three little ones on the spot, but it certainly came off sounding that way. And they were still kinda shell-shocked-- over all the attention (I mean, we had them basically surrounded), over having almost drowned in the swimming pool, and over whatever it was that had settled them on running away in the first place. To say nothing of their backstory, of which we knew nothing.
But finally one of them piped up.
“Well… we’re sorry, too,” half-mumbled the little one. (I’d use his/her name, but at that point, we still didn’t know their names. BECAUSE… we’d never bothered to ask.) “I mean, we’re sorry we’ve caused such a mess. We didn’t know, when we got here…”
He/she paused, then went on. “… well, you know, we were brought here by the sheriff, so it’s not like it was our fault…”
To which we all agreed. That was right: Deputy Rick had brought them by, the night before, shortly after we ourselves had arrived here at “Millionaire Acres.” (Meaning: this run-down ex-“mansion” that supposedly belonged to Barnacle Bill’s old fishing-and-flying buddy Mort. Mort Somebody-or-Other.)
So we nodded our heads in agreement.
“And then…” the sad little puppy went on, after having exchanging glances and nods from the other two pups. “And then, we overheard you talking about giving us away.”
Which statement was met with a resounding chorus of denials, all of which were half-true, at best. Giving the three sheepdog puppies away was PRECISELY what the plan had been.
If it hadn’t been, we wouldn’t have been planning the shopping-mall parking-lot cooking demonstration that was on tap for tomorrow. Suzie and Butch and I wouldn’t have gone to the grocery store just a few hours ago, to order all the food and fixin’s for Suzie’s one-girl demo. (She still hadn’t confided in us exactly what was gonna be on the menu, but knowing Suzie, it’d be just fine. Tasty and not too tough to follow… The one thing you never want to do, in a cooking demo, is make it so complicated that folks get bored or start to feel like they could never do this recipe at home themselves.)
So this little tyke had us dead-to-rights. Giving the puppies away had been PRECISELY the plan.
And now, clearly, that plan had “come home to roost.” Because eventually we all would have to admit it, and then we’d also have to stand by Howie pledge the look after these helpless little puppies… damn-near forever, it sounded like.
Hm.
“So we’re gonna go forward,” Howie went on. “Together. All of us. Together.”
He looked down at the 3 sheepdog puppies. “So… you guys have anything to say for yourselves?”
He wasn’t trying to be intimidating, but you know, he’s a pretty big-sized German Shepherd, and even after all this time having escaped the streets of Chicago, he’s got some mean-looking battle scars, lumps of fur missing, and a piece of his right. (Which is why he always wants to be photographed on his left side. He’s really self-conscious about what he refers to as his “sun-crazed pirate look.”)
So Howie wasn’t trying to put the three little ones on the spot, but it certainly came off sounding that way. And they were still kinda shell-shocked-- over all the attention (I mean, we had them basically surrounded), over having almost drowned in the swimming pool, and over whatever it was that had settled them on running away in the first place. To say nothing of their backstory, of which we knew nothing.
But finally one of them piped up.
“Well… we’re sorry, too,” half-mumbled the little one. (I’d use his/her name, but at that point, we still didn’t know their names. BECAUSE… we’d never bothered to ask.) “I mean, we’re sorry we’ve caused such a mess. We didn’t know, when we got here…”
He/she paused, then went on. “… well, you know, we were brought here by the sheriff, so it’s not like it was our fault…”
To which we all agreed. That was right: Deputy Rick had brought them by, the night before, shortly after we ourselves had arrived here at “Millionaire Acres.” (Meaning: this run-down ex-“mansion” that supposedly belonged to Barnacle Bill’s old fishing-and-flying buddy Mort. Mort Somebody-or-Other.)
So we nodded our heads in agreement.
“And then…” the sad little puppy went on, after having exchanging glances and nods from the other two pups. “And then, we overheard you talking about giving us away.”
Which statement was met with a resounding chorus of denials, all of which were half-true, at best. Giving the three sheepdog puppies away was PRECISELY what the plan had been.
If it hadn’t been, we wouldn’t have been planning the shopping-mall parking-lot cooking demonstration that was on tap for tomorrow. Suzie and Butch and I wouldn’t have gone to the grocery store just a few hours ago, to order all the food and fixin’s for Suzie’s one-girl demo. (She still hadn’t confided in us exactly what was gonna be on the menu, but knowing Suzie, it’d be just fine. Tasty and not too tough to follow… The one thing you never want to do, in a cooking demo, is make it so complicated that folks get bored or start to feel like they could never do this recipe at home themselves.)
So this little tyke had us dead-to-rights. Giving the puppies away had been PRECISELY the plan.
And now, clearly, that plan had “come home to roost.” Because eventually we all would have to admit it, and then we’d also have to stand by Howie pledge the look after these helpless little puppies… damn-near forever, it sounded like.
Hm.
August 12, 2020
And then Howie put a stop to it. The howling. The crying. All of it.
One moment we were all babbling and blubbering and sniveling and wiping our runny noses, and the next thing we knew, Howie had climbed up onto the top of the brick backyard barbecue grill/firepit, and started howling SO LOUD…
… SO LOUD…
… that we all froze in our tracks, looked up to where he stood perched atop the brick oven, and gasped.
Because he was howling like he was trying to send some ancient warning call to a distant pack of very nasty wolves. Or worse. It was a “Hound of the Baskervilles” blood-curdling, baying-at-the-moon sonic blast, like I’d never heard before. (Nor ever want to hear again.)
If you’ve never heard a German Shepherd let loose a truly deep-throated howl, you have no idea. This was one ghastly, wake-up-the-neighbors 2-minute cry.
And it definitely shut the rest of us up. Instantly.
Eventually Howie stopped. Thankfully. I’m not sure how much more the rest of us could’ve endured. (I know that the poolside decking where Mona Lassie and Fifi had been toweling off the three almost-drowned puppies had been wet before all this slobbering/crying/sniveling began, but after Howie’s “outburst,” there were also a few scared-doggie puddles of pee scattered about, too.)
Howie stopped, looked down at the rest of us, tried to compose himself, and then hopped down from atop the brick chimney.
We waited for him to say something, and he didn’t disappoint.
“Okay,” he half-choked out. (His voice sounded raspy, but that was probably understandable. I’m sure my vocal chords would’ve needed to rest a week or more, if I’d howled half as loud, half as long.)
“So…” he continued, “we’ve all had a good cry.”
He glanced down at the three little sheepdog puppies, and went on. “I can’t remember my Mom... or my Dad… either. I mean, I’m a rescue dog myself. My first memories, the first ones I have, well, they’re sometime when I was already all on my own. And I know: I was scared. Terrified. And I didn’t have anyone else to turn to…”
Oh gosh. I wasn’t sure he was going in a good direction. We might all start bawling again.
But then he turned it around. He stretched his neck, stared up at the stars for a moment, shook his head a few times, and then looked back down at the puppies.
“So I can feel your pain,” he said softly. “We all do. And so we’re going to make you a promise.”
The little sheepdogs looked up at him, expectantly. They’d stopped crying by now, and because the tone of his voice was so soft and soothing, they seemed to be embracing whatever idea he was about to introduce. (If nothing else, they no longer seemed scared of us all, and that in itself was a very good thing.)
“I’m sure everyone else will go along with this,” Howie went on, looking each of us in the face, one by one. “We’re gonna promise to take care of you… really take care of you… I know, you’ve probably never really had a home. And I know that maybe we don’t seem like we’re exactly a ‘home”… But we ARE a FAMILY. And we can take care of you, until you’re old enough to stand on your own four paws, each of you.”
There was fair amount of whimpering going on, while he said all this, though fortunately it was pretty quiet, so hopefully we wouldn’t all start bawling again. And it did seem that everybody pretty much agreed with what Howie was saying. I, personally, was just hoping that he’d get it over with soon. This was really a big too much drama for one night.
What with the all-afternoon search for the “lost” doggies, then their discovery, then having them all but drown in the swimming pool, followed by the group crying party, followed by Howie’s ongoing (and hopefully soon-to-conclude) oration.
So I was very much hoping that he was about to wrap things up.
But with German Shepherds, it’s always hard to tell.
Especially, once they know that they’ve got everybody’s attention. (There’s the latent German Shepherd “Great Dictator Speechifying” gene that seems to kick in.)
And then Howie put a stop to it. The howling. The crying. All of it.
One moment we were all babbling and blubbering and sniveling and wiping our runny noses, and the next thing we knew, Howie had climbed up onto the top of the brick backyard barbecue grill/firepit, and started howling SO LOUD…
… SO LOUD…
… that we all froze in our tracks, looked up to where he stood perched atop the brick oven, and gasped.
Because he was howling like he was trying to send some ancient warning call to a distant pack of very nasty wolves. Or worse. It was a “Hound of the Baskervilles” blood-curdling, baying-at-the-moon sonic blast, like I’d never heard before. (Nor ever want to hear again.)
If you’ve never heard a German Shepherd let loose a truly deep-throated howl, you have no idea. This was one ghastly, wake-up-the-neighbors 2-minute cry.
And it definitely shut the rest of us up. Instantly.
Eventually Howie stopped. Thankfully. I’m not sure how much more the rest of us could’ve endured. (I know that the poolside decking where Mona Lassie and Fifi had been toweling off the three almost-drowned puppies had been wet before all this slobbering/crying/sniveling began, but after Howie’s “outburst,” there were also a few scared-doggie puddles of pee scattered about, too.)
Howie stopped, looked down at the rest of us, tried to compose himself, and then hopped down from atop the brick chimney.
We waited for him to say something, and he didn’t disappoint.
“Okay,” he half-choked out. (His voice sounded raspy, but that was probably understandable. I’m sure my vocal chords would’ve needed to rest a week or more, if I’d howled half as loud, half as long.)
“So…” he continued, “we’ve all had a good cry.”
He glanced down at the three little sheepdog puppies, and went on. “I can’t remember my Mom... or my Dad… either. I mean, I’m a rescue dog myself. My first memories, the first ones I have, well, they’re sometime when I was already all on my own. And I know: I was scared. Terrified. And I didn’t have anyone else to turn to…”
Oh gosh. I wasn’t sure he was going in a good direction. We might all start bawling again.
But then he turned it around. He stretched his neck, stared up at the stars for a moment, shook his head a few times, and then looked back down at the puppies.
“So I can feel your pain,” he said softly. “We all do. And so we’re going to make you a promise.”
The little sheepdogs looked up at him, expectantly. They’d stopped crying by now, and because the tone of his voice was so soft and soothing, they seemed to be embracing whatever idea he was about to introduce. (If nothing else, they no longer seemed scared of us all, and that in itself was a very good thing.)
“I’m sure everyone else will go along with this,” Howie went on, looking each of us in the face, one by one. “We’re gonna promise to take care of you… really take care of you… I know, you’ve probably never really had a home. And I know that maybe we don’t seem like we’re exactly a ‘home”… But we ARE a FAMILY. And we can take care of you, until you’re old enough to stand on your own four paws, each of you.”
There was fair amount of whimpering going on, while he said all this, though fortunately it was pretty quiet, so hopefully we wouldn’t all start bawling again. And it did seem that everybody pretty much agreed with what Howie was saying. I, personally, was just hoping that he’d get it over with soon. This was really a big too much drama for one night.
What with the all-afternoon search for the “lost” doggies, then their discovery, then having them all but drown in the swimming pool, followed by the group crying party, followed by Howie’s ongoing (and hopefully soon-to-conclude) oration.
So I was very much hoping that he was about to wrap things up.
But with German Shepherds, it’s always hard to tell.
Especially, once they know that they’ve got everybody’s attention. (There’s the latent German Shepherd “Great Dictator Speechifying” gene that seems to kick in.)
August 11, 2020
Well, you’d think that Mona Lassie and Fifi were trying to suffocate the three little sheepdog puppies, to gauge from their reactions to all the brisk toweling-off. I’ve never heard such wailing, coming from such tiny animals.
It was Howie who finally put an end to it. He whipped the towels away from Mona Lassie and Fifi, and stood towering over the little sheepdog puppies, who were now more fearful of Howie’s wrath than they’d been—mere seconds earlier—of Mona Lassie and Fifi’s attentions.
Howie glared down at them, and to the surprise of us all (including the puppies, no doubt), the first words out of his mouth were: “Okay. So we owe you an apology.”
He paused. No one else said a word, including the shivering sheepdog puppies. They just kept shivering and staring up at him.
“So case closed,” Howie went on. “Time to move on…”
He walked away a few paces, then turned and looked at us all.
“Now, there’s some things we need to know.”
He fixed the little ones in his gaze again.
“First off: What are your names?”
Silence.
The three little ones, still dripping wet, exchanged glances, but said nothing.
Howie frowned. “Come on now,” he sighed. “Let’s not make this too difficult.”
He bent down, gently set a paw on the back of one of the puppies, and said quietly, “It’s okay. We can be friends… Now, what did your mother call you?”
And the little puppy started crying. Didn’t make a move to speak, just started crying. Softly, at first, and then harder.
At which point, the other two started bawling.
To beat the band, as the cliché goes.
And the longer it went on, the worse the rest of us started to feel. Heck, this was all our fault, right? The little puppies had clearly been running away. FROM US. Yikes.
I looked around at everyone, and sure enough, there was Suzie: crying. And Terry: crying. And Butch and Maggie and even that crusty old sea-dog, Barnacle Bill Barker: crying like babies. Even I was starting to feel a bit misty. Looking down at these three poor orphans, homeless and scared and surrounded by 8 big dogs. And the biggest of the lot—Howie-- was hovering over them, like some nasty Grand Inquisitor.
Man, we had a problem on our hands.
Of course, to put things in perspective, a mere 30 minutes earlier, we hadn’t even known where these little tykes had gone. For all we knew, they might’ve been DEAD. So now, at least, we knew that they were alive and looking to be in perfect health, albeit mightily scared (and probably really really hungry).
So it was, I guess you’d say, a stalemate.
Howie walked away, clearly frustrated. I mean, he couldn’t even get their names out of them.
And most everybody else was just bawling away, I’d guess half-remembering their own mothers, some of whom would be far far away, others who’d already passed on to Doggy Heaven. (The dads? Who knows? There is another place besides Doggy Heaven that some dogs go to.)
Anyway, it was just sad. We all just stood there, on the deck beside the swimming pool, and had a good long group cry.
Which eventually turned to outright howling, of course.
Which meant that sooner or later, the cops were gonna show up again.
Funny how “Life” keeps repeating itself.
Well, you’d think that Mona Lassie and Fifi were trying to suffocate the three little sheepdog puppies, to gauge from their reactions to all the brisk toweling-off. I’ve never heard such wailing, coming from such tiny animals.
It was Howie who finally put an end to it. He whipped the towels away from Mona Lassie and Fifi, and stood towering over the little sheepdog puppies, who were now more fearful of Howie’s wrath than they’d been—mere seconds earlier—of Mona Lassie and Fifi’s attentions.
Howie glared down at them, and to the surprise of us all (including the puppies, no doubt), the first words out of his mouth were: “Okay. So we owe you an apology.”
He paused. No one else said a word, including the shivering sheepdog puppies. They just kept shivering and staring up at him.
“So case closed,” Howie went on. “Time to move on…”
He walked away a few paces, then turned and looked at us all.
“Now, there’s some things we need to know.”
He fixed the little ones in his gaze again.
“First off: What are your names?”
Silence.
The three little ones, still dripping wet, exchanged glances, but said nothing.
Howie frowned. “Come on now,” he sighed. “Let’s not make this too difficult.”
He bent down, gently set a paw on the back of one of the puppies, and said quietly, “It’s okay. We can be friends… Now, what did your mother call you?”
And the little puppy started crying. Didn’t make a move to speak, just started crying. Softly, at first, and then harder.
At which point, the other two started bawling.
To beat the band, as the cliché goes.
And the longer it went on, the worse the rest of us started to feel. Heck, this was all our fault, right? The little puppies had clearly been running away. FROM US. Yikes.
I looked around at everyone, and sure enough, there was Suzie: crying. And Terry: crying. And Butch and Maggie and even that crusty old sea-dog, Barnacle Bill Barker: crying like babies. Even I was starting to feel a bit misty. Looking down at these three poor orphans, homeless and scared and surrounded by 8 big dogs. And the biggest of the lot—Howie-- was hovering over them, like some nasty Grand Inquisitor.
Man, we had a problem on our hands.
Of course, to put things in perspective, a mere 30 minutes earlier, we hadn’t even known where these little tykes had gone. For all we knew, they might’ve been DEAD. So now, at least, we knew that they were alive and looking to be in perfect health, albeit mightily scared (and probably really really hungry).
So it was, I guess you’d say, a stalemate.
Howie walked away, clearly frustrated. I mean, he couldn’t even get their names out of them.
And most everybody else was just bawling away, I’d guess half-remembering their own mothers, some of whom would be far far away, others who’d already passed on to Doggy Heaven. (The dads? Who knows? There is another place besides Doggy Heaven that some dogs go to.)
Anyway, it was just sad. We all just stood there, on the deck beside the swimming pool, and had a good long group cry.
Which eventually turned to outright howling, of course.
Which meant that sooner or later, the cops were gonna show up again.
Funny how “Life” keeps repeating itself.
August 10, 2020
I’ve always thought that I have pretty good reflexes, but my response to hearing all that splashing and wailing from the back yard was nothing compared to Maggie’s.
Maggie Scroungehound sometimes doesn’t get enough attention, but when it comes to water sports, water safety, and general all-round water proficiency, nobody in this gang comes even close to Maggie’s prowess and resourcefulness.
Butch and I had been standing just outside the door to the Tour Bus, which was parked in front of the house, and we were pretty sure that the three (supposedly) lost sheepdog puppies had just “flown the coop,” so to speak, when we’d heard the splashing sounds coming from the back yard. Which, of course, was where the swimming pool was located. And in a split-second we’d both started away hot-footing it in that direction…
… and had gotten as far as the side of the house…
…when we saw the back door burst open…
… and Maggie come absolutely FLYING out the door.
In a matter of a half-dozen gazelle-like bounds, she’d launched herself into the shallow end of the pool.
Butch and I hurried over, to see if we could render assistance, and the rest of the dogs poured out of the back door, not wanting to miss the action or to maybe get in on the glory of a “water rescue,” but we weren’t really needed.
Maggie dove into the shallow end and promptly vanished from sight. (I’d almost forgotten how much Maggie likes to show off holding her breath.)
After a moment of worry, she broke the surface of the water with two weasely-looking creatures in her jaw. She paddled over to the steps inside the pool, pushed herself up the first two, and unceremoniously dumped the little creatures on the poolside deck. Then, in a flash, she turned around and dove back down to rescue the third little puppy.
That took no more than two seconds, which was fortunate, because this last one looked half-blue when it hit the poolside deck next to its siblings! Definitely half-blue!
Maggie took a victory lap around the pool to celebrate and bask in the cheers of the rest of us.
Mona Lassie and Fifi rushed over to the little puppies and all-but-smothered them with towels, thinking (I guess) that the quicker they got dried off, the sooner they’d forget their near-death experience.
And the rest of the dogs rushed back inside the house, to see if they could scramble up some food for the poor things.
All in all, it was an amazing (and I would have thought totally avoidable) 10 minutes.
And it had only, just now, gotten dark. We hadn’t even had dinner yet!
What horrific thing was gonna happen next?
I’ve always thought that I have pretty good reflexes, but my response to hearing all that splashing and wailing from the back yard was nothing compared to Maggie’s.
Maggie Scroungehound sometimes doesn’t get enough attention, but when it comes to water sports, water safety, and general all-round water proficiency, nobody in this gang comes even close to Maggie’s prowess and resourcefulness.
Butch and I had been standing just outside the door to the Tour Bus, which was parked in front of the house, and we were pretty sure that the three (supposedly) lost sheepdog puppies had just “flown the coop,” so to speak, when we’d heard the splashing sounds coming from the back yard. Which, of course, was where the swimming pool was located. And in a split-second we’d both started away hot-footing it in that direction…
… and had gotten as far as the side of the house…
…when we saw the back door burst open…
… and Maggie come absolutely FLYING out the door.
In a matter of a half-dozen gazelle-like bounds, she’d launched herself into the shallow end of the pool.
Butch and I hurried over, to see if we could render assistance, and the rest of the dogs poured out of the back door, not wanting to miss the action or to maybe get in on the glory of a “water rescue,” but we weren’t really needed.
Maggie dove into the shallow end and promptly vanished from sight. (I’d almost forgotten how much Maggie likes to show off holding her breath.)
After a moment of worry, she broke the surface of the water with two weasely-looking creatures in her jaw. She paddled over to the steps inside the pool, pushed herself up the first two, and unceremoniously dumped the little creatures on the poolside deck. Then, in a flash, she turned around and dove back down to rescue the third little puppy.
That took no more than two seconds, which was fortunate, because this last one looked half-blue when it hit the poolside deck next to its siblings! Definitely half-blue!
Maggie took a victory lap around the pool to celebrate and bask in the cheers of the rest of us.
Mona Lassie and Fifi rushed over to the little puppies and all-but-smothered them with towels, thinking (I guess) that the quicker they got dried off, the sooner they’d forget their near-death experience.
And the rest of the dogs rushed back inside the house, to see if they could scramble up some food for the poor things.
All in all, it was an amazing (and I would have thought totally avoidable) 10 minutes.
And it had only, just now, gotten dark. We hadn’t even had dinner yet!
What horrific thing was gonna happen next?
August 7, 2020
So now I faced the task, sometime later that night, of “cleaning up for the elephants.” Until then…
I was totally thrilled that Butch had found and flushed out the 3 missing sheepdog puppies.
Because that’s what I had seen: The 3 blurs of fur that had dashed past me, down the aisle inside The Bus, flopped down the steps to the front door of The Bus, and scampered off into the darkness outside.
After hours of searching, after all the worry, after all of Howie’s organizing and ordering everybody around and cajoling the neighborhood hounds into helping out, after all of the shame of us (all of us) letting the poor little tykes get lost in the first place…
Plus, as I’d discovered when we’d first realized that the puppies had gone missing, none of us had ever bothered to even ask them what their names were.
And then they’d vanished, and we couldn’t remember when we’d last seen them, so busy were we with our own (individual) self-centered concerns. Great role models we’d turned out to be.
Well, anyway, they were back. Finally. Sort of. I mean, they’d been inside The Bus (possibly the whole time). And Butch had figured it out and forced them to scram out of there. And now they were—at the very least-- somewhere on the property. Either somewhere in the yard, or maybe they’d run into the house.
But I hadn’t heard a big cheer go up from inside the house, which I would’ve expected if they’d shown up while everybody else was hanging around the kitchen and the living room. So maybe they were running around the yard, looking for another place to hide.
And I hadn’t even gotten around to asking the question: “Why?” Why were they hiding in the first place?
The answer: Well, on the face of it, at least, they were hiding from US. Their supposed friends. (But I guess you could ask: “Why would they consider you friends? Why not consider you CAPTORS? Had you—yourself—ever even TALKED to them? Or had you treated them, right from the start, as something that you’d eventually—sooner or later—have to give away? Basically: Abandon.”)
Great. So here I was, standing outside The Bus in the growing darkness, wondering just where the heck they’d gotten themselves off to NOW…
Butch tromped down the steps of The Bus and hopped off to stand beside me.
“So now where’d they get to?” he asked me, half-growling.
“I don’t know,” I answered. “I assume they’re not in the house, and it’s getting dark.”
“Well, at least they’re not gonna poop in The Bus anymore,” Butch observed, looking at the bright side. “I think you should keep the door locked, so they can’t sneak back in.”
At which point Butch and I became aware of some very loud splashing (as in: water splashing around), and some half-muffled cries for help.
Cries for help? Now what?
And the thought dawned on me: (Three thoughts, actually):
So now I faced the task, sometime later that night, of “cleaning up for the elephants.” Until then…
I was totally thrilled that Butch had found and flushed out the 3 missing sheepdog puppies.
Because that’s what I had seen: The 3 blurs of fur that had dashed past me, down the aisle inside The Bus, flopped down the steps to the front door of The Bus, and scampered off into the darkness outside.
After hours of searching, after all the worry, after all of Howie’s organizing and ordering everybody around and cajoling the neighborhood hounds into helping out, after all of the shame of us (all of us) letting the poor little tykes get lost in the first place…
Plus, as I’d discovered when we’d first realized that the puppies had gone missing, none of us had ever bothered to even ask them what their names were.
And then they’d vanished, and we couldn’t remember when we’d last seen them, so busy were we with our own (individual) self-centered concerns. Great role models we’d turned out to be.
Well, anyway, they were back. Finally. Sort of. I mean, they’d been inside The Bus (possibly the whole time). And Butch had figured it out and forced them to scram out of there. And now they were—at the very least-- somewhere on the property. Either somewhere in the yard, or maybe they’d run into the house.
But I hadn’t heard a big cheer go up from inside the house, which I would’ve expected if they’d shown up while everybody else was hanging around the kitchen and the living room. So maybe they were running around the yard, looking for another place to hide.
And I hadn’t even gotten around to asking the question: “Why?” Why were they hiding in the first place?
The answer: Well, on the face of it, at least, they were hiding from US. Their supposed friends. (But I guess you could ask: “Why would they consider you friends? Why not consider you CAPTORS? Had you—yourself—ever even TALKED to them? Or had you treated them, right from the start, as something that you’d eventually—sooner or later—have to give away? Basically: Abandon.”)
Great. So here I was, standing outside The Bus in the growing darkness, wondering just where the heck they’d gotten themselves off to NOW…
Butch tromped down the steps of The Bus and hopped off to stand beside me.
“So now where’d they get to?” he asked me, half-growling.
“I don’t know,” I answered. “I assume they’re not in the house, and it’s getting dark.”
“Well, at least they’re not gonna poop in The Bus anymore,” Butch observed, looking at the bright side. “I think you should keep the door locked, so they can’t sneak back in.”
At which point Butch and I became aware of some very loud splashing (as in: water splashing around), and some half-muffled cries for help.
Cries for help? Now what?
And the thought dawned on me: (Three thoughts, actually):
- The splashing was coming from the back yard. And
- The swimming pool was in the back yard. And
- We didn’t know if the puppies could swim.
August 6, 2020
I try to keep these things in perspective.
In the present case, wherein I’m allotted the unpleasant chore of “cleaning up after somebody else,” I have to fall back on humor. And a sense of scale.
Take the old vaudeville joke about the guy who’s spent 30 years working for the circus. His job, every day for 30 years, has been to walk behind the elephants and pick up their “droppings.”
So one night he’s complaining about it to his best friend, and the best friend asks him (understandably), “If you hate it so much, why don’t you quit?”
And the guy looks at his friend, incredulous, throws his arms out theatrically, and says, “What? And get out of show business?”
I try to keep these things in perspective.
In the present case, wherein I’m allotted the unpleasant chore of “cleaning up after somebody else,” I have to fall back on humor. And a sense of scale.
Take the old vaudeville joke about the guy who’s spent 30 years working for the circus. His job, every day for 30 years, has been to walk behind the elephants and pick up their “droppings.”
So one night he’s complaining about it to his best friend, and the best friend asks him (understandably), “If you hate it so much, why don’t you quit?”
And the guy looks at his friend, incredulous, throws his arms out theatrically, and says, “What? And get out of show business?”
August 5, 2020
“Are you sure?” I asked Butch.
And why was I whispering? We were standing inside The Tour Bus. It was getting dark outside. The guys and I had been searching for the lost sheepdog puppies for several hours, having enlisted the aid of several dozen neighborhood mutts, too, and with no success. Now Butch was half-growling, half-muttering to himself about “puppy poop?”
“Of course I’m sure,” Butch retorted, sticking his snout under one of the once-plush seats near the front of The Bus. “It’s as plain as the nose on your face.”
He trundled off toward the back of The Bus, sniffing here and there as he went.
Now it’s true, I’ve never had much on the way of olfactory awareness. (Or so I’ve been told, countless times, by every member of our traveling “Team,” but then I’m not a dog. They’ve got a huge advantage in the… scent-and-sniff sweepstakes.) And I have to admit: When I’d first entered The Bus, it had reeked perhaps a bit worse than “normal.” But maybe only a bit worse, and maybe I’d been just imagining things. Now I had Butch here, with his dogs-only super-sensitive snout, and he was telling me--
Butch, halfway to the back of The Bus, interrupted my thoughts. He turned to look at me, and with a loud voice, said, “Okay. Enough of the fun and games. Hide-and-seek. Blind Man’s Bluff… or whatever it’s called…”
He paused, waiting for something.
Which didn’t happen. Just silence. (And it was, in fact, getting darker outside, by the minute.)
But Butch was not to be deterred. He spun around to face the back of The Bus and announced, “I’m gonna count to three. Do we know how to count to three?”
What? Was he talking to children?
Then the answer dawned: Yes. OF COURSE he was talking to children! (What was I thinking?)
And so, before he even got to “Two,” I heard some rustling.
Faint, at first, and seeming to come from the way-back portion of the bus, then getting a bit louder.
More rustling sounds, and then some half-stifled yelps ( baby-sized yelps)…
… and then, before my eyes exactly registered what I was seeing…
… three small balls of fur came pelting down the aisle of The Bus and zoomed right past me…
… down the steps at the front of The Bus…
… and out the door…
… out into the “gathering dusk.”
Butch stood in the aisle, back near the back, looking at me.
And I looked back at him.
And for a moment, neither of us said anything.
Until, finally, Butch looked around, sniffed the air, frowned, and said, “Somebody’s got some cleaning-up to do.”
And, of course, I was pretty sure I knew who he was talking about.
One of the many “fun” jobs that comes with being The Tour Manager.
“Are you sure?” I asked Butch.
And why was I whispering? We were standing inside The Tour Bus. It was getting dark outside. The guys and I had been searching for the lost sheepdog puppies for several hours, having enlisted the aid of several dozen neighborhood mutts, too, and with no success. Now Butch was half-growling, half-muttering to himself about “puppy poop?”
“Of course I’m sure,” Butch retorted, sticking his snout under one of the once-plush seats near the front of The Bus. “It’s as plain as the nose on your face.”
He trundled off toward the back of The Bus, sniffing here and there as he went.
Now it’s true, I’ve never had much on the way of olfactory awareness. (Or so I’ve been told, countless times, by every member of our traveling “Team,” but then I’m not a dog. They’ve got a huge advantage in the… scent-and-sniff sweepstakes.) And I have to admit: When I’d first entered The Bus, it had reeked perhaps a bit worse than “normal.” But maybe only a bit worse, and maybe I’d been just imagining things. Now I had Butch here, with his dogs-only super-sensitive snout, and he was telling me--
Butch, halfway to the back of The Bus, interrupted my thoughts. He turned to look at me, and with a loud voice, said, “Okay. Enough of the fun and games. Hide-and-seek. Blind Man’s Bluff… or whatever it’s called…”
He paused, waiting for something.
Which didn’t happen. Just silence. (And it was, in fact, getting darker outside, by the minute.)
But Butch was not to be deterred. He spun around to face the back of The Bus and announced, “I’m gonna count to three. Do we know how to count to three?”
What? Was he talking to children?
Then the answer dawned: Yes. OF COURSE he was talking to children! (What was I thinking?)
And so, before he even got to “Two,” I heard some rustling.
Faint, at first, and seeming to come from the way-back portion of the bus, then getting a bit louder.
More rustling sounds, and then some half-stifled yelps ( baby-sized yelps)…
… and then, before my eyes exactly registered what I was seeing…
… three small balls of fur came pelting down the aisle of The Bus and zoomed right past me…
… down the steps at the front of The Bus…
… and out the door…
… out into the “gathering dusk.”
Butch stood in the aisle, back near the back, looking at me.
And I looked back at him.
And for a moment, neither of us said anything.
Until, finally, Butch looked around, sniffed the air, frowned, and said, “Somebody’s got some cleaning-up to do.”
And, of course, I was pretty sure I knew who he was talking about.
One of the many “fun” jobs that comes with being The Tour Manager.
August 4, 2020
The most commonly-accepted theory about the development of the English Bulldog is that they were bred, specifically, to fight bears in Elizabethan England. (If you remember your Shakespeare lessons, you’ll recall that there were several bull- and bear-baiting venues bankside or thereabouts in Southwark (the far side of London Bridge).
I’ve also seen references to their use in cornering and corralling runaways bulls in New York City in the mid-17th century.
Their usefulness in either endeavor waned over time, and with it their famous tenacity and ferocity, but they’re still useful in many ways. Our own Butch Waddles is a useful guy to have around in countless ways. Even if we only enjoyed his company because of his delightful personality, right now I needed him for a more specific reason.
Because, if I was going to search The Bus really thoroughly, and if I was going to go high (searching the overhead racks and cupboards), Butch was definitely designed to…
… go low.
That low-to-the-ground snout of his would be perfect to root through all the trash and dog bowls and smelly socks and old newspapers and everything else that somehow accumulate, on the floor and in tight corners, on The Bus. (If you ever played on a high-school sports team and did bus rides to far-away games, you kno what I’m talking about.)
So I shouted, and Butch responded almost instantly. (If there’s one thing for which I’m eternally grateful, it’s how loyal and willing-to-help these guys always are.)
Butch bounded up the steps into The Bus, and immediately let out a string of growls and sundry profanities.
“Oh my -----!” he bellowed, shaking his head as if to clear his senses. “What the heck happened in here?”
“So it’s not my imagination?” I asked him.
He gave me an amused look. “Well, I’ve been amazed at many of the things your imagination has imagined, over the years,” he smiled, “but this here—this here tonight—this is downright WAY TOO REAL.”
I didn’t even respond. I just stood there, straddling the aisle halfway back in The Bus.
“It doesn’t take a real detective,” Butch continued, sauntering down the aisle to meet me. “This here—This here is—“
And then he stopped, shook his head, and smiled again.
“Yes?” I asked, impatient.
Butch looked around the inside of The Bus, glancing high and low, up at the luggage racks, down underneath the seats.
“You know,” he said, almost casually, so I could sense a story coming on, “my Daddy used to take me along with him on road trips sometimes. Started out when I was still pretty young. You remember my Daddy? Clarence? He used to joke that I was too young to even know how to drool.
“Well anyway, he liked to take me along with him to cook contests. The championship cook circuit, where he was basically ‘The King.’ Most folks knew him as ‘Mister Clarence’ or ‘Bull’ Waddles.”
Butch closed his eyes and smiled again, clearly enjoying the memory of traveling and palling around with his famous daddy.
“But you know, my Daddy wasn’t exactly a saint, and so sometimes on, say, a Saturday night, he’d sort-of leave me to my own devices while he went off to enjoy the ladies. If you get my drift…
We stood there in The Bus for a moment, in silence, while he took a trip down Memory Lane.
Impatiently, I had to prod, “And?”
“And? Well, I wound up sometimes having to find a spot to bed down all by my lonesome. And, you know, it was okay. But sometimes…”
His voice trailed off for a second, then he resumed things.
“Sometimes I wasn’t so good at picking a ‘total convenience’ spot. That’s how we phrased it: finding a sleeping spot with ‘all the conveniences.’ You know, when you’re young, and it’s getting late at night and you’re tired, and you’re basically falling asleep on your paws, sometimes you just lie down and fall asleep before you’ve had time to really plan things out, and so you sometimes wake up in the middle of the night and there’s no place…”
Ah. I was starting to get it. “And there’s no place to go?” I asked him.
And he nodded. “Yeah. It happened, occasionally. And my Daddy would show up, next morning, and the first thing out of his mouth—he never got angry about it or anything. It was more like he found it sorta funny—the first thing out of his mouth would be…”
And I think I knew what was coming, but I waited for him to say it.
“Puppy poop!”
The most commonly-accepted theory about the development of the English Bulldog is that they were bred, specifically, to fight bears in Elizabethan England. (If you remember your Shakespeare lessons, you’ll recall that there were several bull- and bear-baiting venues bankside or thereabouts in Southwark (the far side of London Bridge).
I’ve also seen references to their use in cornering and corralling runaways bulls in New York City in the mid-17th century.
Their usefulness in either endeavor waned over time, and with it their famous tenacity and ferocity, but they’re still useful in many ways. Our own Butch Waddles is a useful guy to have around in countless ways. Even if we only enjoyed his company because of his delightful personality, right now I needed him for a more specific reason.
Because, if I was going to search The Bus really thoroughly, and if I was going to go high (searching the overhead racks and cupboards), Butch was definitely designed to…
… go low.
That low-to-the-ground snout of his would be perfect to root through all the trash and dog bowls and smelly socks and old newspapers and everything else that somehow accumulate, on the floor and in tight corners, on The Bus. (If you ever played on a high-school sports team and did bus rides to far-away games, you kno what I’m talking about.)
So I shouted, and Butch responded almost instantly. (If there’s one thing for which I’m eternally grateful, it’s how loyal and willing-to-help these guys always are.)
Butch bounded up the steps into The Bus, and immediately let out a string of growls and sundry profanities.
“Oh my -----!” he bellowed, shaking his head as if to clear his senses. “What the heck happened in here?”
“So it’s not my imagination?” I asked him.
He gave me an amused look. “Well, I’ve been amazed at many of the things your imagination has imagined, over the years,” he smiled, “but this here—this here tonight—this is downright WAY TOO REAL.”
I didn’t even respond. I just stood there, straddling the aisle halfway back in The Bus.
“It doesn’t take a real detective,” Butch continued, sauntering down the aisle to meet me. “This here—This here is—“
And then he stopped, shook his head, and smiled again.
“Yes?” I asked, impatient.
Butch looked around the inside of The Bus, glancing high and low, up at the luggage racks, down underneath the seats.
“You know,” he said, almost casually, so I could sense a story coming on, “my Daddy used to take me along with him on road trips sometimes. Started out when I was still pretty young. You remember my Daddy? Clarence? He used to joke that I was too young to even know how to drool.
“Well anyway, he liked to take me along with him to cook contests. The championship cook circuit, where he was basically ‘The King.’ Most folks knew him as ‘Mister Clarence’ or ‘Bull’ Waddles.”
Butch closed his eyes and smiled again, clearly enjoying the memory of traveling and palling around with his famous daddy.
“But you know, my Daddy wasn’t exactly a saint, and so sometimes on, say, a Saturday night, he’d sort-of leave me to my own devices while he went off to enjoy the ladies. If you get my drift…
We stood there in The Bus for a moment, in silence, while he took a trip down Memory Lane.
Impatiently, I had to prod, “And?”
“And? Well, I wound up sometimes having to find a spot to bed down all by my lonesome. And, you know, it was okay. But sometimes…”
His voice trailed off for a second, then he resumed things.
“Sometimes I wasn’t so good at picking a ‘total convenience’ spot. That’s how we phrased it: finding a sleeping spot with ‘all the conveniences.’ You know, when you’re young, and it’s getting late at night and you’re tired, and you’re basically falling asleep on your paws, sometimes you just lie down and fall asleep before you’ve had time to really plan things out, and so you sometimes wake up in the middle of the night and there’s no place…”
Ah. I was starting to get it. “And there’s no place to go?” I asked him.
And he nodded. “Yeah. It happened, occasionally. And my Daddy would show up, next morning, and the first thing out of his mouth—he never got angry about it or anything. It was more like he found it sorta funny—the first thing out of his mouth would be…”
And I think I knew what was coming, but I waited for him to say it.
“Puppy poop!”
August 3, 2020
I found my pair of semi-clean cargo shorts (the ones that Fifi had earlier shamed me into trading for long pants) and slipped them on. I felt noticeably cooler with them, as opposed to the blue jeans. So the short trek back outside to The Bus had been worth the trouble.
Still, I had this eerie sense that something was going on here—inside The Bus—that I was missing. Some sort of “presence” that my human senses weren’t fully registering.
I stood dead-silent for a few moments, right there inside The Bus. It didn’t smell too good, but then, it never smells very good. We’re a traveling band of 8 dogs and one human. What would you expect?
But…
But… we don’t POOP inside The Bus. That’s one rule that NEVER… EVER gets violated.
Then why did I suddenly realize that something smelled “rotten in Denmark,” as I believe William Shakespeare once wrote?
I sniffed the air. Well, maybe it was just my imagination. It’d been a long day. Maybe I was just inventing things.
I sniffed again.
Well, I’d smelled worse. (Not myself, personally. I meant: The Bus.)
I shook my head. Yeah, I was dreaming. Plus, I was hungry. Maybe I just needed to get some food in my stomach.
But then I heard something go, “Ouch!”
Really quietly, but “Ouch!” nonetheless.
I froze, staying so stock-still that I could almost hear my own breathing.
And after a few moments, I distinctly heard something rustling.
What was it? It sounded like paper rustling, or ruffling. But how? There was no breeze inside The Bus. (If there had been, maybe it wouldn’t have been smelling so bad.)
Then it got completely quiet again.
I just stood there, in the now-darkening Tour Bus. I couldn’t hear anything, but I could sense that I was, somehow, missing something.
And it really did smell… unusually bad. (I mean, we hadn’t even slept in here the night before.)
So I knew that I needed help. Not desperately. But “help” would be “helpful.”
So I did what came naturally. I walked to the front of the bus and yelled out the door, towards the house…
“BUTCH!!”
I found my pair of semi-clean cargo shorts (the ones that Fifi had earlier shamed me into trading for long pants) and slipped them on. I felt noticeably cooler with them, as opposed to the blue jeans. So the short trek back outside to The Bus had been worth the trouble.
Still, I had this eerie sense that something was going on here—inside The Bus—that I was missing. Some sort of “presence” that my human senses weren’t fully registering.
I stood dead-silent for a few moments, right there inside The Bus. It didn’t smell too good, but then, it never smells very good. We’re a traveling band of 8 dogs and one human. What would you expect?
But…
But… we don’t POOP inside The Bus. That’s one rule that NEVER… EVER gets violated.
Then why did I suddenly realize that something smelled “rotten in Denmark,” as I believe William Shakespeare once wrote?
I sniffed the air. Well, maybe it was just my imagination. It’d been a long day. Maybe I was just inventing things.
I sniffed again.
Well, I’d smelled worse. (Not myself, personally. I meant: The Bus.)
I shook my head. Yeah, I was dreaming. Plus, I was hungry. Maybe I just needed to get some food in my stomach.
But then I heard something go, “Ouch!”
Really quietly, but “Ouch!” nonetheless.
I froze, staying so stock-still that I could almost hear my own breathing.
And after a few moments, I distinctly heard something rustling.
What was it? It sounded like paper rustling, or ruffling. But how? There was no breeze inside The Bus. (If there had been, maybe it wouldn’t have been smelling so bad.)
Then it got completely quiet again.
I just stood there, in the now-darkening Tour Bus. I couldn’t hear anything, but I could sense that I was, somehow, missing something.
And it really did smell… unusually bad. (I mean, we hadn’t even slept in here the night before.)
So I knew that I needed help. Not desperately. But “help” would be “helpful.”
So I did what came naturally. I walked to the front of the bus and yelled out the door, towards the house…
“BUTCH!!”
July 31, 2020
Which, of course, was totally un-helpful. Totally.
We all looked at each other (the rest of us). Howie’d done such a good job of organizing “the search,” and now he comes up with THIS? As if THIS is some sort of solution?
What did he mean? “Looking in places where we wouldn’t expect puppies to be?”
That’s the thing about puppies. They can be ANYWHERE. Even when you’re not worried about them. Even when you haven’t thought of them as being LOST. They can still be ANYWHERE! They love to run all over the place and explore. Find out-of-the-way nooks and crannies, blend into the background and take a nap. They could be basically in plain sight, but not noticeable. Or they could be hidden somewhere where we’ll never find them. Or they could’ve been found by some bigger, nastier predator. (Do they have wolves here, in eastern Virginia?) Or they could’ve wandered off into the swamp…
So what Howie said doesn’t narrow the search down… AT ALL.
Well, I thought, I guess I should be happy that HOWIE thinks this ameliorates the situation, at least. He’s looking more upbeat. But it doesn’t help the rest of us.
Various patrols had been staggering/shuffling/slumping back in, to report not finding anything. The mood in the room (the mansion’s spacious living room, which we’d hastily converted to Search HQ) very quickly started to turn defeatist. (“Hang-dog,” I believe the expression is.)
So… what next? Do we contact Deputy Rick? Have him put out an APD on three lost sheepdog puppies?
Howie had said: definitely not. And everybody else had agreed with him.
I’m a human, so I can’t really know how deeply suspicious of human law enforcement dogs are. Always have been, always will be. It’s a primeval survival impulse, staying out-of-sight from creatures that can throw you into a cage and leave you there… forever.
So what’s that leave? The swamp? We don’t even have a boat. I mean: a row boat or a raft or an outboard-mounted skiff. And I’m not going in there on foot. Even if there’s no alligators or crocodiles in there, there’s bound to be SNAKES.
Heck, even dogs hate snakes.
So where’s that leave us? I don’t know.
I stand up and sigh. Looking down at Fifi, I said to her, “I’m gonna go back to The Bus and change out of these blue jeans. It’s too hot in here.”
Fifi was so dejected/distracted that she just nodded. Which would’ve been an amazing sight, at any other moment. She’s almost always super-sensitive to what she calls “poor personal presentation,” and she never likes to see me slouching around in T-shirt and shorts. But tonight? Well, there weren’t going to be any “media” around. No TV cameras, no newspaper reporters. It was just us, all moping around like a bunch of losers, so why the heck not dress however I felt?
So I slowly walked out the front door and headed for The Bus. I couldn’t help sort-of daydreaming, half-hearing what those poor little puppies must be saying to each other.
Things like: “How come all those big dogs haven’t come and rescued us? I thought they were our friends,” one of them might be saying.
And, “I’m really afraid of the dark,” another one might be whimpering.
“Do you think that dinosaur is still following us?” I imagined the third one asking.
As I entered The Bus, I could almost hear the someone whining, softly, “I’m sooo hungry. Sooo hungry.”
“SShh!” I could almost hear someone else hiss. “We can’t let them find us.”
“But how much longer, Sherman?” someone else whispered.
“Sherman?” Who the heck was “Sherman?” And what was that thing about a dinosaur?
Was I imagining all this? Was I hallucinating?
Which, of course, was totally un-helpful. Totally.
We all looked at each other (the rest of us). Howie’d done such a good job of organizing “the search,” and now he comes up with THIS? As if THIS is some sort of solution?
What did he mean? “Looking in places where we wouldn’t expect puppies to be?”
That’s the thing about puppies. They can be ANYWHERE. Even when you’re not worried about them. Even when you haven’t thought of them as being LOST. They can still be ANYWHERE! They love to run all over the place and explore. Find out-of-the-way nooks and crannies, blend into the background and take a nap. They could be basically in plain sight, but not noticeable. Or they could be hidden somewhere where we’ll never find them. Or they could’ve been found by some bigger, nastier predator. (Do they have wolves here, in eastern Virginia?) Or they could’ve wandered off into the swamp…
So what Howie said doesn’t narrow the search down… AT ALL.
Well, I thought, I guess I should be happy that HOWIE thinks this ameliorates the situation, at least. He’s looking more upbeat. But it doesn’t help the rest of us.
Various patrols had been staggering/shuffling/slumping back in, to report not finding anything. The mood in the room (the mansion’s spacious living room, which we’d hastily converted to Search HQ) very quickly started to turn defeatist. (“Hang-dog,” I believe the expression is.)
So… what next? Do we contact Deputy Rick? Have him put out an APD on three lost sheepdog puppies?
Howie had said: definitely not. And everybody else had agreed with him.
I’m a human, so I can’t really know how deeply suspicious of human law enforcement dogs are. Always have been, always will be. It’s a primeval survival impulse, staying out-of-sight from creatures that can throw you into a cage and leave you there… forever.
So what’s that leave? The swamp? We don’t even have a boat. I mean: a row boat or a raft or an outboard-mounted skiff. And I’m not going in there on foot. Even if there’s no alligators or crocodiles in there, there’s bound to be SNAKES.
Heck, even dogs hate snakes.
So where’s that leave us? I don’t know.
I stand up and sigh. Looking down at Fifi, I said to her, “I’m gonna go back to The Bus and change out of these blue jeans. It’s too hot in here.”
Fifi was so dejected/distracted that she just nodded. Which would’ve been an amazing sight, at any other moment. She’s almost always super-sensitive to what she calls “poor personal presentation,” and she never likes to see me slouching around in T-shirt and shorts. But tonight? Well, there weren’t going to be any “media” around. No TV cameras, no newspaper reporters. It was just us, all moping around like a bunch of losers, so why the heck not dress however I felt?
So I slowly walked out the front door and headed for The Bus. I couldn’t help sort-of daydreaming, half-hearing what those poor little puppies must be saying to each other.
Things like: “How come all those big dogs haven’t come and rescued us? I thought they were our friends,” one of them might be saying.
And, “I’m really afraid of the dark,” another one might be whimpering.
“Do you think that dinosaur is still following us?” I imagined the third one asking.
As I entered The Bus, I could almost hear the someone whining, softly, “I’m sooo hungry. Sooo hungry.”
“SShh!” I could almost hear someone else hiss. “We can’t let them find us.”
“But how much longer, Sherman?” someone else whispered.
“Sherman?” Who the heck was “Sherman?” And what was that thing about a dinosaur?
Was I imagining all this? Was I hallucinating?
July 30, 2020
So Howie had done a good job of organizing the search effort. He’d sent out patrols in basically every direction, except out back of the house in the swamp. None of us wanted anything to do with the swamp, and we really couldn’t imagine the puppies being any more interested in its endless evil possibilities than we were. (I guess that there was always the chance that something akin to the Creature from the Black Lagoon could be lurking out there, just waiting for innocent young mammals to come walking by its lair, but even if that were the case, there’d be nothing that any of us could do now to save them.)
And by “now” I mean: several hours after we’d discovered them missing.
That’s right. We’d been hunting for them for a good 2-3 hours, and it was starting to get dark. What would we do if we couldn’t find them before night descended for good? The dogs and I didn’t know this area even in the daylight.
Sure, the neighborhood dogs were helping out, enthusiastically, cuz that’s what dogs do: they help each other out. (Mightn’t we humans take a lesson or two form their playbooks?) And they knew this area like the backs of their paws. In their sleep. And they hadn’t turned anything up, either.
So now what were we going to do?
Howie wasn’t about to give up, of course. That’s not his way.
Ever the bookworm, he sat back at his perch at Search HQ (i.e., the mansion’s living room floor) and thought aloud.
“I was thinking of that famous passage on Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s book ‘One Hundred Years of Solitude.”
(Yeah. Leave it to Howie to start quoting a Noble Laureate’s masterwork at a time of crisis… Though not in a time of cholera, to add an unnecessary pun/allusion to my telling of this episode.)
“Anyway,” Howie continued, “there’s this part in the book when a young woman loses her… wedding ring, I think it is. Yeah, it must be. Cuz it was really important to her. So it had to be a wedding ring, or at least an engagement ring.”
“Does this take place in a jungle somewhere?” Fifi wanted to know. (With a sniff. Haughty, you know. Parisians can be pretty sniffy about uncivilized places. Such as: anywhere outside of Paris.) “Don’t all his stories happen in jungles, with people living in huts, and it rains all day long? Real hot rain?”
Howie shook his head. “That’s not the point. I mean, it’s not my point. My point is: She realizes that she can’t find her wedding ring, and she looks everywhere, and she still can’t find it… And so, finally, in desperation, she asks for help from her blind grandmother.”
“Seriously?” asked Terry, who knows a thing or two about Latin grandmothers. His basic takeaway is: stay away from them. As far away as possible. Not that they can’t cook. But if you fall in love with their grand-daughters, before you know it, grandma wants to move in with you. “I’d think you’d be better off hiring a detective agency. Or even call out the Guardia Civil.”
“Probably be less stressful,” agreed Butch.
All of which was getting us nowhere.
So I motioned to Howie to speed it up. Get this literary reminiscence over and done with.
Howie nodded. “Really. She asks her blind grandmother, and it takes the old woman like 2 seconds to find it. The ring.”
“Two seconds?” repeated Fifi, somewhat incredulous.
“Well, you know. Really fast.”
And with that, Howie stopped speaking, and appeared to be thinking. Considering. Mulling something over in his head.
“WELL???” we all (the rest of us in the room) asked. Demanded. As in: “What’s the conclusion we’re all supposed to draw from this world-lit anecdote?”
“Oh, yeah!” Howie exclaimed, snapping out of his reverie. “Sorry…. I was just thinking...”
He sat up, looked around the room. “So, the reason this passage in the book became sorta famous was, the grandmother explains to her granddaughter why it was that it was so easy for her to find the missing ring. And she says, basically, that the fact that she’s blind is really irrelevant. She says: when you misplace something, it winds up going missing because you put it someplace where you’d never normally put it. So she, the grandmother, just eliminated all the places might have normally left the ring, and what was left were the few—very few, I guess, if they were living in some maybe one-room shack in the jungle—“
At which point he smiled at Fifi, who picked up the bait and added, “—in the pouring rain—“
To which Butch laughed and added, “—Really hot rain.”
Howie got the jokes, but plugged on. “Right… Glad you’re all following so closely… Anyway, the grandmother eliminates pretty much every possible place that her granddaughter might’ve put the ring down, and that only leaves a few other places, and so she finds the ring almost right away.”
Howie sat back, smiling. Perhaps smiling at the memory of reading a really good book. (I did mention, I think, that Howie’s our closet bookworm. You know, he tries to present this image of him as a tough, street-wise guy from Chicago, but in reality, he loves nothing better than to curl up with a good book. I actually worry about him straining his eyes, when he’s up late at night reading without a whole lot of light. But then, he’s a grown-up boy, so there’s only so much I can do.)
“So what’s the point?” demanded Mona Lassie. She’d taken the disappearance of the puppies especially hard, and so she was a bit more on-edge than the rest of us. (The whole shopping-mall cooking demonstration idea, where we found some responsible folks to adopt the puppies, had been HER idea, after all, and now in her mind, she’d let them disappear… Hopefully, not into the swamp.) So she wanted to know, from Howie, “What’s the point?”
“Oh,” he looked over at her. He thought for a moment, then said, “Well, I guess, what that means is that… maybe we should be looking in places where we wouldn’t expect puppies to be.”
So Howie had done a good job of organizing the search effort. He’d sent out patrols in basically every direction, except out back of the house in the swamp. None of us wanted anything to do with the swamp, and we really couldn’t imagine the puppies being any more interested in its endless evil possibilities than we were. (I guess that there was always the chance that something akin to the Creature from the Black Lagoon could be lurking out there, just waiting for innocent young mammals to come walking by its lair, but even if that were the case, there’d be nothing that any of us could do now to save them.)
And by “now” I mean: several hours after we’d discovered them missing.
That’s right. We’d been hunting for them for a good 2-3 hours, and it was starting to get dark. What would we do if we couldn’t find them before night descended for good? The dogs and I didn’t know this area even in the daylight.
Sure, the neighborhood dogs were helping out, enthusiastically, cuz that’s what dogs do: they help each other out. (Mightn’t we humans take a lesson or two form their playbooks?) And they knew this area like the backs of their paws. In their sleep. And they hadn’t turned anything up, either.
So now what were we going to do?
Howie wasn’t about to give up, of course. That’s not his way.
Ever the bookworm, he sat back at his perch at Search HQ (i.e., the mansion’s living room floor) and thought aloud.
“I was thinking of that famous passage on Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s book ‘One Hundred Years of Solitude.”
(Yeah. Leave it to Howie to start quoting a Noble Laureate’s masterwork at a time of crisis… Though not in a time of cholera, to add an unnecessary pun/allusion to my telling of this episode.)
“Anyway,” Howie continued, “there’s this part in the book when a young woman loses her… wedding ring, I think it is. Yeah, it must be. Cuz it was really important to her. So it had to be a wedding ring, or at least an engagement ring.”
“Does this take place in a jungle somewhere?” Fifi wanted to know. (With a sniff. Haughty, you know. Parisians can be pretty sniffy about uncivilized places. Such as: anywhere outside of Paris.) “Don’t all his stories happen in jungles, with people living in huts, and it rains all day long? Real hot rain?”
Howie shook his head. “That’s not the point. I mean, it’s not my point. My point is: She realizes that she can’t find her wedding ring, and she looks everywhere, and she still can’t find it… And so, finally, in desperation, she asks for help from her blind grandmother.”
“Seriously?” asked Terry, who knows a thing or two about Latin grandmothers. His basic takeaway is: stay away from them. As far away as possible. Not that they can’t cook. But if you fall in love with their grand-daughters, before you know it, grandma wants to move in with you. “I’d think you’d be better off hiring a detective agency. Or even call out the Guardia Civil.”
“Probably be less stressful,” agreed Butch.
All of which was getting us nowhere.
So I motioned to Howie to speed it up. Get this literary reminiscence over and done with.
Howie nodded. “Really. She asks her blind grandmother, and it takes the old woman like 2 seconds to find it. The ring.”
“Two seconds?” repeated Fifi, somewhat incredulous.
“Well, you know. Really fast.”
And with that, Howie stopped speaking, and appeared to be thinking. Considering. Mulling something over in his head.
“WELL???” we all (the rest of us in the room) asked. Demanded. As in: “What’s the conclusion we’re all supposed to draw from this world-lit anecdote?”
“Oh, yeah!” Howie exclaimed, snapping out of his reverie. “Sorry…. I was just thinking...”
He sat up, looked around the room. “So, the reason this passage in the book became sorta famous was, the grandmother explains to her granddaughter why it was that it was so easy for her to find the missing ring. And she says, basically, that the fact that she’s blind is really irrelevant. She says: when you misplace something, it winds up going missing because you put it someplace where you’d never normally put it. So she, the grandmother, just eliminated all the places might have normally left the ring, and what was left were the few—very few, I guess, if they were living in some maybe one-room shack in the jungle—“
At which point he smiled at Fifi, who picked up the bait and added, “—in the pouring rain—“
To which Butch laughed and added, “—Really hot rain.”
Howie got the jokes, but plugged on. “Right… Glad you’re all following so closely… Anyway, the grandmother eliminates pretty much every possible place that her granddaughter might’ve put the ring down, and that only leaves a few other places, and so she finds the ring almost right away.”
Howie sat back, smiling. Perhaps smiling at the memory of reading a really good book. (I did mention, I think, that Howie’s our closet bookworm. You know, he tries to present this image of him as a tough, street-wise guy from Chicago, but in reality, he loves nothing better than to curl up with a good book. I actually worry about him straining his eyes, when he’s up late at night reading without a whole lot of light. But then, he’s a grown-up boy, so there’s only so much I can do.)
“So what’s the point?” demanded Mona Lassie. She’d taken the disappearance of the puppies especially hard, and so she was a bit more on-edge than the rest of us. (The whole shopping-mall cooking demonstration idea, where we found some responsible folks to adopt the puppies, had been HER idea, after all, and now in her mind, she’d let them disappear… Hopefully, not into the swamp.) So she wanted to know, from Howie, “What’s the point?”
“Oh,” he looked over at her. He thought for a moment, then said, “Well, I guess, what that means is that… maybe we should be looking in places where we wouldn’t expect puppies to be.”
July 29, 2020
So just I case you’ve forgotten what all the commotion was about, let me explain.
Here we all were, in the Tidewater area of eastern Virginia, having motored down here in The Tour Bus from Baltimore. “The Tour,” as we called it, was a months-long group road trip with all 8 of our world-class chef-authors, and the purpose of it, really, was two-fold (at least this is ow our self-publicist selves would like to present it):
One, we wanted to re-introduce America to our wonderful cookbooks. Just on the off-chance that somebody out there might never have heard of them. This was entirely possible, if they’d been living on Mars for the past 10 years OR they didn’t have cable TV. (I don’t want to go into our long-running dispute with Dish TV, or whatever they’re calling themselves these days.)
Thus, we’d thought that tooling around the country in a big motorhome, making public appearances at schools, churches, scout banquets, and Rotary Club meetings would re-acquaint folks with how helpful (and darned-near essential) OUR network is.
In case YOU’VE forgotten, it’s called The Chow Network, and it features (among other things) our 8 stupendous and fun culinary experts. I.e., my traveling companions on this round-the-country jaunt: Fifi, Butch, Mona Lassie, Terry, Suzie, Barnacle Bill, Maggie, and Howie.
Second (the second reason for doing this trip), is because we really like driving around and seeing stuff. It’s fun. I mean, how many dogs do you know who DON’T like to hop in the car? It’s almost like we were MADE to ride around. Like we were waiting, all these thousands of years of evolution, for cars to be invented, so that we could hop in and stick our heads out the window.
So anyway, we’d just been (kindly) released from jail (aka The Slammer) in Baltimore, for some utterly trivial offense, and I’d asked the guys if anybody knew of a place where we could sorta “lie low” for a few days. And Barnacle Bill suggested this “dis-used” once-upon-a-time mansion down here in the Tidewater, and so we’d arrived and tried to settle in…
… And as you might remember, the very first night of our stay, Deputy Rick shows up to check out a “disturbance in the neighborhood.” Meaning: every adult male dog within 50 miles of here had shown up to check out Fifi and Suzie, who were pretending to be in heat. (I almost forget, now, why we’d thought that that would be a useful ruse, but it must’ve seemed almost necessary at the time.)
And once the situation had calmed itself down and we’d gotten to know (and like) Deputy Rick, he’d explained to us that he just so happened to have 3 young sheepdog puppies in the back of his police cruiser, and he had no idea what to do with them.
(And he couldn’t take them home with him, because his wife Allison would be almost guaranteed to fall in love with them and want to adopt them, which he (Deputy Rick) didn’t think would be practical (for himself and Allison, both of whom worked pretty long hours).
So Mona Lassie had come up with an idea, and it had seemed like a pretty good possible solution…
Until the puppies went missing…
… some time this morning, or early afternoon.
So, just in case you’d forgotten, this is what they look like. The 3 adorable sheepdog puppies.
(I hope this doesn’t look too much like a “Wanted” poster photo, but it’s all I’ve got. Cute, huh?)
So just I case you’ve forgotten what all the commotion was about, let me explain.
Here we all were, in the Tidewater area of eastern Virginia, having motored down here in The Tour Bus from Baltimore. “The Tour,” as we called it, was a months-long group road trip with all 8 of our world-class chef-authors, and the purpose of it, really, was two-fold (at least this is ow our self-publicist selves would like to present it):
One, we wanted to re-introduce America to our wonderful cookbooks. Just on the off-chance that somebody out there might never have heard of them. This was entirely possible, if they’d been living on Mars for the past 10 years OR they didn’t have cable TV. (I don’t want to go into our long-running dispute with Dish TV, or whatever they’re calling themselves these days.)
Thus, we’d thought that tooling around the country in a big motorhome, making public appearances at schools, churches, scout banquets, and Rotary Club meetings would re-acquaint folks with how helpful (and darned-near essential) OUR network is.
In case YOU’VE forgotten, it’s called The Chow Network, and it features (among other things) our 8 stupendous and fun culinary experts. I.e., my traveling companions on this round-the-country jaunt: Fifi, Butch, Mona Lassie, Terry, Suzie, Barnacle Bill, Maggie, and Howie.
Second (the second reason for doing this trip), is because we really like driving around and seeing stuff. It’s fun. I mean, how many dogs do you know who DON’T like to hop in the car? It’s almost like we were MADE to ride around. Like we were waiting, all these thousands of years of evolution, for cars to be invented, so that we could hop in and stick our heads out the window.
So anyway, we’d just been (kindly) released from jail (aka The Slammer) in Baltimore, for some utterly trivial offense, and I’d asked the guys if anybody knew of a place where we could sorta “lie low” for a few days. And Barnacle Bill suggested this “dis-used” once-upon-a-time mansion down here in the Tidewater, and so we’d arrived and tried to settle in…
… And as you might remember, the very first night of our stay, Deputy Rick shows up to check out a “disturbance in the neighborhood.” Meaning: every adult male dog within 50 miles of here had shown up to check out Fifi and Suzie, who were pretending to be in heat. (I almost forget, now, why we’d thought that that would be a useful ruse, but it must’ve seemed almost necessary at the time.)
And once the situation had calmed itself down and we’d gotten to know (and like) Deputy Rick, he’d explained to us that he just so happened to have 3 young sheepdog puppies in the back of his police cruiser, and he had no idea what to do with them.
(And he couldn’t take them home with him, because his wife Allison would be almost guaranteed to fall in love with them and want to adopt them, which he (Deputy Rick) didn’t think would be practical (for himself and Allison, both of whom worked pretty long hours).
So Mona Lassie had come up with an idea, and it had seemed like a pretty good possible solution…
Until the puppies went missing…
… some time this morning, or early afternoon.
So, just in case you’d forgotten, this is what they look like. The 3 adorable sheepdog puppies.
(I hope this doesn’t look too much like a “Wanted” poster photo, but it’s all I’ve got. Cute, huh?)
July 28, 2020
Face it. Sometimes you need a kick in the butt. Sometimes... even if you didn't really do anything to deserve it. Just for being... you.
Well, recently, we've been having some "operational" problems with this website. And we've more-or-less resolved them (which is good), but in the process, "we" noticed that on the "mobile" version of our website, it might not be that easy to scroll down the entire length of this admittedly lengthy blog-sorta-story, just to get to the present day's (no doubt fascinating, enthralling) chapter.
So, to make the reading experience easier, "we" have decided to "flip" the story-- non-metaphorically.
Thus, starting today, you'll be seeing the latest contribution by John up here at the "top of the column," rather than having to scroll all the way to the bottom to continue reading the latest installment of our extraordinary saga.
Like I said, sometimes you need a kick in the butt.
Face it. Sometimes you need a kick in the butt. Sometimes... even if you didn't really do anything to deserve it. Just for being... you.
Well, recently, we've been having some "operational" problems with this website. And we've more-or-less resolved them (which is good), but in the process, "we" noticed that on the "mobile" version of our website, it might not be that easy to scroll down the entire length of this admittedly lengthy blog-sorta-story, just to get to the present day's (no doubt fascinating, enthralling) chapter.
So, to make the reading experience easier, "we" have decided to "flip" the story-- non-metaphorically.
Thus, starting today, you'll be seeing the latest contribution by John up here at the "top of the column," rather than having to scroll all the way to the bottom to continue reading the latest installment of our extraordinary saga.
Like I said, sometimes you need a kick in the butt.
So from this point, if you'd like to take up the thread of "the narrative," you'll have to scroll down (or "Page Down") all the way to the end to find the entry for July 27, 2020.
And then you can resume reading this story, in reverse (if you will).
Which you might find worthwhile, so "we" haven't deleted it. It'll just take a bit of effort on your part to "get to the bottom of things."
And then you can resume reading this story, in reverse (if you will).
Which you might find worthwhile, so "we" haven't deleted it. It'll just take a bit of effort on your part to "get to the bottom of things."
January 1, 2020
John wrote:
Happy New Year from home base: Aspen, Colorado!
We're officially back from suspension (our very prolonged suspension), and a hearty "Thanks for nothing!" to the boys in the mail room for that.
I'm not supposed to comment on it all, of course, but needless to say, none of us were happy about how the whole "contract re-negotiation" thing went down (much less how it played out).
But we are duly chastened, and we have promised: no more group road trips for a while.
You probably read all about it in the business press or maybe in "Variety," but I will say that some of the accounts were greatly exaggerated. And it wasn't all Terry's fault.
Granted these problems always seem to creep up when he's driving, but I think a lot of that has to do with the fact that he's used to manhandling that big, bulky taqueria (which we always refer to as "Terry's big bomb") of his around Los Angeles, and so he gets a little "manic" when he's behind the wheel of anything more manageable and road-worthy-- much less a 40-foot schooner of a stretch limo. I'm sure he was channeling Formula One races like Sebring and Monaco and Monza when the whole unfortunate "incident" started....
But enough of that. Suffice it to say: We're back! And better than ever! And boy, is my wife glad of that. "Mister Mom" was funny at the movies, but not so much in real life. I learned a lot of things during my forced-sabbatical 4 months, and one of them was: There's only so much you can do around the house, before the little woman starts making noises about you getting an outdoor hobby.
So once again, as we repeated ad infinitum at the press conference: Sorry, sorry, sorry for our (imposed) absence, but we'll try to make it up to everybody by behaving and by (hopefully) presenting some better-than-ever recipes and general all-round cooking tips!
For the moment, then, ciao!
New Year's Eve fireworks on Aspen Mountain, as seen from the banks of the Roaring Fork River.
April 21, 2020
So here we are, almost 4 months later, and obviously that was what my sainted mother used to refer to as “a bunch of hooey.” Balderdash, b-s, what have you.
It was never intended as a “cover-up,” but I (we) couldn’t bring myself to admit what had really happened. Even now I’m a bit stunned. Shell-shocked might be a better way to put it.
Let me just say this: We hadn’t been “paused” because of some long-drawn-out contract negotiations. We hadn’t been put “on hiatus” by the suits upstairs at Corporate. And we certainly hadn’t been betrayed by the boys down in the mailroom. (They’re some of our biggest fans.) We had done this to ourselves. Or at least one of us had done this… to all of us.
Because what had happened was… Well, there’s no pretty way to frame it. Somebody… somebody (and we’re pointing no fingers, at least not yet) somebody stole a shitload of money from Network.
There. I’ve said it. Take a deep breath. Breathe in, breathe out. Bend from the knees. Take another breath.
Grand theft. Grand larceny. Embezzlement. Robbing the piggy bank. Call it what you may. Somebody stole a shitload of money.
In the coming installments, I’ll try to explain what I knew, what I know, and what I think might happen next. So if you’re still willing to be a supporter of The Team, in spite of everything that’s happened, I’ll get on with it starting tomorrow.
And away we go!
So here we are, almost 4 months later, and obviously that was what my sainted mother used to refer to as “a bunch of hooey.” Balderdash, b-s, what have you.
It was never intended as a “cover-up,” but I (we) couldn’t bring myself to admit what had really happened. Even now I’m a bit stunned. Shell-shocked might be a better way to put it.
Let me just say this: We hadn’t been “paused” because of some long-drawn-out contract negotiations. We hadn’t been put “on hiatus” by the suits upstairs at Corporate. And we certainly hadn’t been betrayed by the boys down in the mailroom. (They’re some of our biggest fans.) We had done this to ourselves. Or at least one of us had done this… to all of us.
Because what had happened was… Well, there’s no pretty way to frame it. Somebody… somebody (and we’re pointing no fingers, at least not yet) somebody stole a shitload of money from Network.
There. I’ve said it. Take a deep breath. Breathe in, breathe out. Bend from the knees. Take another breath.
Grand theft. Grand larceny. Embezzlement. Robbing the piggy bank. Call it what you may. Somebody stole a shitload of money.
In the coming installments, I’ll try to explain what I knew, what I know, and what I think might happen next. So if you’re still willing to be a supporter of The Team, in spite of everything that’s happened, I’ll get on with it starting tomorrow.
And away we go!
April 22, 2020
So then…
The road trip, admittedly, did not go real great. (But as I wrote earlier, it wasn’t all Terry’s fault.) It almost had an element of “Spinal Tap,” if you’ve ever seen that movie. The “accommodations,” such as they were, left quite a bit to be desired, but I guess when you show up at a Motel 6 at 2:00 in the morning with 8 dogs and assorted groupies and “support staff,” you’re gonna meet up with a bit of resistance.
And the bus itself wasn’t quite as luxurious as we’d been expecting. You know, when you’ve got a large number of headstrong animals in a confined space for long periods of time, day after day, you’re gonna have some “friction.” And needless to say, there’s always one or two in any bunch who are less-than-conscientious in the grooming and deportment categories. (Much less the plays-well-with-others categpry.)
The incident in Buffalo, and the other one at the Iowa State Fair, come to think of it, I think you could probably have chalked up to a series of misunderstandings. (Or maybe you’d call them mis-steps.) But the car-versus-bus smackdown in Baltimore was pretty much all our fault. Not just Terry’s. All of us.
What had started out as a simple “you’ve driving the wrong way on a one-way street” flubber-dubber could easily have been rectified—even after the minor fender-bender with the taxi cab. (I mean, taxi cabs get into fender-benders all the time, right? That’s why they always have all those dents in them.)
But then everybody just had to pile out of the bus and start screaming their heads off…
You get the picture. By the time the cops arrived “en scene,” we had a crowd bigger than Camden Yards, a fire hydrant that somebody had pried open (gushing an admittedly welcome cool jet of agua all over the intersection), and a wandering band of street musicians serenading the masses and all of us (or at least the canine element) crooning their heads off whenever the “melody” sounded familiar.
Chaos, you might say… but friendly.
It actually might’ve turned out okay, if that local TV-station video truck hadn’t shown up. You know my guys: ever the hams.
So what had started out as a 3-ring circus quickly devolved into a fight for the spotlight. (Or in this case, the camera.) Boy, you should’ve seen them: pushing each other out of the way, preening their feathers (so to speak), rushing back into the bus to touch up their makeup, barging back into the reporter’s arms, pretending to lick her face and grovel for treats.
As if my prima donnas have ever needed to grovel for treats—or anything else—ever. Get real.
It turned out to be a huge embarrassment, once the guys back at Corporate HQ saw the footage on the Evening News.
That was probably the Beginning of the End. Had we but known it.
But it was certainly… certainly… just the Beginning.
So then…
The road trip, admittedly, did not go real great. (But as I wrote earlier, it wasn’t all Terry’s fault.) It almost had an element of “Spinal Tap,” if you’ve ever seen that movie. The “accommodations,” such as they were, left quite a bit to be desired, but I guess when you show up at a Motel 6 at 2:00 in the morning with 8 dogs and assorted groupies and “support staff,” you’re gonna meet up with a bit of resistance.
And the bus itself wasn’t quite as luxurious as we’d been expecting. You know, when you’ve got a large number of headstrong animals in a confined space for long periods of time, day after day, you’re gonna have some “friction.” And needless to say, there’s always one or two in any bunch who are less-than-conscientious in the grooming and deportment categories. (Much less the plays-well-with-others categpry.)
The incident in Buffalo, and the other one at the Iowa State Fair, come to think of it, I think you could probably have chalked up to a series of misunderstandings. (Or maybe you’d call them mis-steps.) But the car-versus-bus smackdown in Baltimore was pretty much all our fault. Not just Terry’s. All of us.
What had started out as a simple “you’ve driving the wrong way on a one-way street” flubber-dubber could easily have been rectified—even after the minor fender-bender with the taxi cab. (I mean, taxi cabs get into fender-benders all the time, right? That’s why they always have all those dents in them.)
But then everybody just had to pile out of the bus and start screaming their heads off…
You get the picture. By the time the cops arrived “en scene,” we had a crowd bigger than Camden Yards, a fire hydrant that somebody had pried open (gushing an admittedly welcome cool jet of agua all over the intersection), and a wandering band of street musicians serenading the masses and all of us (or at least the canine element) crooning their heads off whenever the “melody” sounded familiar.
Chaos, you might say… but friendly.
It actually might’ve turned out okay, if that local TV-station video truck hadn’t shown up. You know my guys: ever the hams.
So what had started out as a 3-ring circus quickly devolved into a fight for the spotlight. (Or in this case, the camera.) Boy, you should’ve seen them: pushing each other out of the way, preening their feathers (so to speak), rushing back into the bus to touch up their makeup, barging back into the reporter’s arms, pretending to lick her face and grovel for treats.
As if my prima donnas have ever needed to grovel for treats—or anything else—ever. Get real.
It turned out to be a huge embarrassment, once the guys back at Corporate HQ saw the footage on the Evening News.
That was probably the Beginning of the End. Had we but known it.
But it was certainly… certainly… just the Beginning.
April 23, 2020
The next day, we all got out of jail. (Thanks to our insurance company, I should add, not the guys in Legal.)
Jail had actually been fun, in a way. It turned out that a couple of the women working in the kitchen were big fans, and when they found out that Suzie Snow Peas was one of their “honored guests” for the evening, they invited the whole lot of us into their big walk-in fridge for a Scavenger Hunt. (Which, as we all know, is Maggie’s specialty.)
Needless to say, Suzie and her new-found friends cooked us up one heck of a feast. And word got around, as it always seems to do, and before we knew it, the reporter lady from Channel 13 News was back with her camera crew, and we all had to pretend that we hadn’t already eaten (gorged ourselves) and so then perform an impromptu full-30-minutes cooking demo on Oriental/Chesapeake Bay Cuisine via Live Remote for the good TV viewers of Greater Baltimore. Boy, we were slinging crab cakes and sliders and mussels-and-oyster chop suey around that kitchen till I thought we’d have to re-paint the place!
You can get a surprisingly good night’s sleep in the Baltimore County Jail after 2 full dinners, especially if you don’t get bunked in with a gang of snoring mutts. The mattress was a bit firm, and the jumpsuit was a little tight, but all in all, I hit the snooze button almost as soon as they called “lights-out.”
Breakfast was another story, but then I’m used to Terry’s eye-popping burritos, so runny scrambled eggs, canadian bacon, and grits won’t kill me. (The coffee was another story, too. I think it was 3 parts chicory.)
Eventually we all got “sprung.” And boy, was it ever great to feel the sun bathing down on our sorry-as-sin faces.
The dog-mobile was functional, and the helpful insurance lady said that she couldn’t get us an appointment to replace the custom bathroom fixtures on such short notice, so we all decided that she’d been helpful enough—just getting the darned thing to start, somehow—that we figured we could just pull over into a truck stop (or some bushes) whenever the call of nature arrived.
So off down the road we proceeded, hopefully duly chastised by the sequence of unfortunate events that we all agreed weren’t Terry’s fault completely. Although we all also agreed that, in the future, we should all try—no matter who was driving—to not drive down any one-way streets the wrong way anymore.
Strangely enough, we were so relieved to be “free men” again, that we were a good 10 miles down the road before we realized that we hadn’t turned in our jailhouse jumpsuits when we left.
We actually decided that we looked pretty spiffy in them. Except for the bits of crab cake and mussels still sticking to them from last night’s banquet. So we pulled over at the next rest stop and piled out and begged some confused vacationer to snap a few photos of us all dolled up in our jailhouse garb for the website. (Fifi didn’t think she looked good in orange, but then she’s always real sensitive about how she looks.)
Somehow somebody forgot to save the photos onto their cell phone, so I’m afraid they’re lost forever. And I’m sure I’ll be taking the blame for that, but what else is new? As if that was anywhere near the worst thing that’s happened in the past 6 months.
The next day, we all got out of jail. (Thanks to our insurance company, I should add, not the guys in Legal.)
Jail had actually been fun, in a way. It turned out that a couple of the women working in the kitchen were big fans, and when they found out that Suzie Snow Peas was one of their “honored guests” for the evening, they invited the whole lot of us into their big walk-in fridge for a Scavenger Hunt. (Which, as we all know, is Maggie’s specialty.)
Needless to say, Suzie and her new-found friends cooked us up one heck of a feast. And word got around, as it always seems to do, and before we knew it, the reporter lady from Channel 13 News was back with her camera crew, and we all had to pretend that we hadn’t already eaten (gorged ourselves) and so then perform an impromptu full-30-minutes cooking demo on Oriental/Chesapeake Bay Cuisine via Live Remote for the good TV viewers of Greater Baltimore. Boy, we were slinging crab cakes and sliders and mussels-and-oyster chop suey around that kitchen till I thought we’d have to re-paint the place!
You can get a surprisingly good night’s sleep in the Baltimore County Jail after 2 full dinners, especially if you don’t get bunked in with a gang of snoring mutts. The mattress was a bit firm, and the jumpsuit was a little tight, but all in all, I hit the snooze button almost as soon as they called “lights-out.”
Breakfast was another story, but then I’m used to Terry’s eye-popping burritos, so runny scrambled eggs, canadian bacon, and grits won’t kill me. (The coffee was another story, too. I think it was 3 parts chicory.)
Eventually we all got “sprung.” And boy, was it ever great to feel the sun bathing down on our sorry-as-sin faces.
The dog-mobile was functional, and the helpful insurance lady said that she couldn’t get us an appointment to replace the custom bathroom fixtures on such short notice, so we all decided that she’d been helpful enough—just getting the darned thing to start, somehow—that we figured we could just pull over into a truck stop (or some bushes) whenever the call of nature arrived.
So off down the road we proceeded, hopefully duly chastised by the sequence of unfortunate events that we all agreed weren’t Terry’s fault completely. Although we all also agreed that, in the future, we should all try—no matter who was driving—to not drive down any one-way streets the wrong way anymore.
Strangely enough, we were so relieved to be “free men” again, that we were a good 10 miles down the road before we realized that we hadn’t turned in our jailhouse jumpsuits when we left.
We actually decided that we looked pretty spiffy in them. Except for the bits of crab cake and mussels still sticking to them from last night’s banquet. So we pulled over at the next rest stop and piled out and begged some confused vacationer to snap a few photos of us all dolled up in our jailhouse garb for the website. (Fifi didn’t think she looked good in orange, but then she’s always real sensitive about how she looks.)
Somehow somebody forgot to save the photos onto their cell phone, so I’m afraid they’re lost forever. And I’m sure I’ll be taking the blame for that, but what else is new? As if that was anywhere near the worst thing that’s happened in the past 6 months.
April 24, 2020
Barnacle Bill had been behind the wheel when we’d made our getaway (actually, our release) from the Baltimore County Jail. I’d planned that way because he knows the eastern seaboard like the back of his paw.
The old sea dog didn’t let us down. After an interminable number of “pit stops,” which you get used to with a bus-load of pooches, he ran us down to the Tidewater region of Virginia, and after much sniffing around, he found the place he’d been looking for: what he casually referred to as one of his “humble somebody-owes-me-a-favor hideaways.”
It sure wasn’t the shack I’d envisioned. No, this place was more like a dilapidated 1920’S movie-star mansion (think “Sunset Boulevard”) set in the middle of nowhere. (I wondered whether his long-lost friend was some Gloria Swanson type. The possibility that she was lurking around “behind the scenes” made me shudder.)
What the mansion may have lacked charm, it certainly made up for in seclusion. We couldn’t have been closer to the center of absolutely no-where. Which was precisely what I’d been looking for. We needed a few days of zero activity to recharge our batteries and discuss what we were going to do next.
But first (after we’d beaten down the front door) we had to spend several hours cleaning the place up. I.e., sweeping away all the cobwebs, shoveling the leaves and assorted other plant material out of the pool, hauling away the remains of a hobo camp someone had set up in the living room. We exchanged bets on how long it would take the leaky garden hose to fill the pool to an acceptable wading-pool depth. Butch eventually won with a guess of 4 hours.
But after those few hours of shared cleanup duty, we all realized that we were (metaphorically, if not literally) starving, and that there was (obviously) NO FOOD IN THE LARDER.
So to speak. Duh.
Which, then, obviously mandated… a trip to the store.
The one thing you really don’t want to do with a pack of ravenous dogs. Ever. Take my word for it.
Barnacle Bill had been behind the wheel when we’d made our getaway (actually, our release) from the Baltimore County Jail. I’d planned that way because he knows the eastern seaboard like the back of his paw.
The old sea dog didn’t let us down. After an interminable number of “pit stops,” which you get used to with a bus-load of pooches, he ran us down to the Tidewater region of Virginia, and after much sniffing around, he found the place he’d been looking for: what he casually referred to as one of his “humble somebody-owes-me-a-favor hideaways.”
It sure wasn’t the shack I’d envisioned. No, this place was more like a dilapidated 1920’S movie-star mansion (think “Sunset Boulevard”) set in the middle of nowhere. (I wondered whether his long-lost friend was some Gloria Swanson type. The possibility that she was lurking around “behind the scenes” made me shudder.)
What the mansion may have lacked charm, it certainly made up for in seclusion. We couldn’t have been closer to the center of absolutely no-where. Which was precisely what I’d been looking for. We needed a few days of zero activity to recharge our batteries and discuss what we were going to do next.
But first (after we’d beaten down the front door) we had to spend several hours cleaning the place up. I.e., sweeping away all the cobwebs, shoveling the leaves and assorted other plant material out of the pool, hauling away the remains of a hobo camp someone had set up in the living room. We exchanged bets on how long it would take the leaky garden hose to fill the pool to an acceptable wading-pool depth. Butch eventually won with a guess of 4 hours.
But after those few hours of shared cleanup duty, we all realized that we were (metaphorically, if not literally) starving, and that there was (obviously) NO FOOD IN THE LARDER.
So to speak. Duh.
Which, then, obviously mandated… a trip to the store.
The one thing you really don’t want to do with a pack of ravenous dogs. Ever. Take my word for it.
April 27, 2020
So… One thing you may never have thought of: It’s really difficult, if you’re a dog, to get arrested for much of anything. Yes, they (the dog-catchers) can pinch you for vagrancy, maybe for “running at-large” in some locales, even simple assault (from some human. You’d never ask a cop to arrest a dog for assault if you were another dog.) But other than that, dogs get off pretty easy with the law.
Even when we’d all wound up in the hoosegow up in Baltimore, the charge had been “disorderly conduct.” Which was obviously just a grab-bag for pissing off a bunch of people and not showing any remorse afterwards. At all. (That’s kinda the way my guys work.)
Which fact—the fact that dogs can get away with damn-near anything, short of biting and breaking skin—leads them to act with virtual impunity. Especially when they’re hungry. (To say nothing of “when they’re ravenous.”)
So you can’t imagine how frightening the prospect of going to the grocery store en masse (cuz nobody was gonna get left out of this excursion) was to me. I’d been through this too many times, on too many road trips, to not realize that something really terrible was almost certainly in the cards.
(You’ve never been there. You don’t know. You can’t guess how exhausting it is to not have disaster befall us, virtually every turn of the way, on every damned road trip. Even a simple thing like a “pit stop.” Sure, it’s supposed to be a pull-off-the-road, and then a quick scamper into the long grass. But basically every time it’s a quick scamper… followed by a do-your-business… and then… LET’S RUN ACROSS THE ROAD!
Every damn time!
How we manage to get even 10 miles down any country lane, much less a busy interstate or a big-city freeway (admittedly, finding acceptable long grass alongside a freeway can be a challenge), I’ll never know. What I can tell you is that, if I had any hair on my head, it would have long ago turned ashen gray or pure pure white as I watched my “darling wards” dash in and out of traffic. (I wake up at night, most nights of the week, in a cold sweat, dreaming of hearing the squeal of tires, the blaring of car and truck horns, and the angered voices of motorists to “get that mutt off the road!”)
But that’s nothing—absolutely nothing—to the chaos that was about to unfold when 8 slavering canines descended on---
Okay. I’m sorry. I know I’m just feeling sorry for myself. I have to remind myself—occasionally—that I’ve got the greatest job in the world.
Forgive me for ranting. It’s like malaria. It sneaks up on me without warning.
I’m usually a totally sunny guy. My glass is always half-full. If not positively brimming.
It’s just that sometimes…
Sometimes I’m faced with prospect which I awaited me that afternoon. The sense of dread and doom that all would not go well in that simple grocery store in that quiet hamlet in backwater Virginia.
How right I was.
So… One thing you may never have thought of: It’s really difficult, if you’re a dog, to get arrested for much of anything. Yes, they (the dog-catchers) can pinch you for vagrancy, maybe for “running at-large” in some locales, even simple assault (from some human. You’d never ask a cop to arrest a dog for assault if you were another dog.) But other than that, dogs get off pretty easy with the law.
Even when we’d all wound up in the hoosegow up in Baltimore, the charge had been “disorderly conduct.” Which was obviously just a grab-bag for pissing off a bunch of people and not showing any remorse afterwards. At all. (That’s kinda the way my guys work.)
Which fact—the fact that dogs can get away with damn-near anything, short of biting and breaking skin—leads them to act with virtual impunity. Especially when they’re hungry. (To say nothing of “when they’re ravenous.”)
So you can’t imagine how frightening the prospect of going to the grocery store en masse (cuz nobody was gonna get left out of this excursion) was to me. I’d been through this too many times, on too many road trips, to not realize that something really terrible was almost certainly in the cards.
(You’ve never been there. You don’t know. You can’t guess how exhausting it is to not have disaster befall us, virtually every turn of the way, on every damned road trip. Even a simple thing like a “pit stop.” Sure, it’s supposed to be a pull-off-the-road, and then a quick scamper into the long grass. But basically every time it’s a quick scamper… followed by a do-your-business… and then… LET’S RUN ACROSS THE ROAD!
Every damn time!
How we manage to get even 10 miles down any country lane, much less a busy interstate or a big-city freeway (admittedly, finding acceptable long grass alongside a freeway can be a challenge), I’ll never know. What I can tell you is that, if I had any hair on my head, it would have long ago turned ashen gray or pure pure white as I watched my “darling wards” dash in and out of traffic. (I wake up at night, most nights of the week, in a cold sweat, dreaming of hearing the squeal of tires, the blaring of car and truck horns, and the angered voices of motorists to “get that mutt off the road!”)
But that’s nothing—absolutely nothing—to the chaos that was about to unfold when 8 slavering canines descended on---
Okay. I’m sorry. I know I’m just feeling sorry for myself. I have to remind myself—occasionally—that I’ve got the greatest job in the world.
Forgive me for ranting. It’s like malaria. It sneaks up on me without warning.
I’m usually a totally sunny guy. My glass is always half-full. If not positively brimming.
It’s just that sometimes…
Sometimes I’m faced with prospect which I awaited me that afternoon. The sense of dread and doom that all would not go well in that simple grocery store in that quiet hamlet in backwater Virginia.
How right I was.
April 28, 2020
So I can remind you: My guys knew that it’s real hard for a dog to get arrested, no matter how selfishly or dangerously they acted. And here we were, heading through the front door of a fully-stocked and welcoming grocery store. A veritable “recipe” for disaster.
And so it started right away. The shopping carts. Everybody had to have a shopping cart.
Remember: These aren’t just 8 random dogs. These are 8 of the best canine chefs on the planet. With egos (and energy) to match.
Just imagine the Indy 500, if you set it up so that the drivers didn’t start out already sitting in their cars at the starting line, but they had to run 100 yards first, then find an empty car (whichever car they could get to first) and jump in, start it up, and only then absolutely FLOOR IT out down the race track.
Well, that’s sorta what happened once we’d walked in the front down of the grocery store. Perfectly quiet, innocent, well-stocked and well-organized medium-sized grocery store. Maybe a little mood music playing from the ceiling. (I didn’t notice.)
And then all hell breaks loose.
It was like 8 bank robbers driving 8 getaway cars. (And think of the irony: We’d just gotten out of jail 10 hours earlier!)
I stood there speechless, as 8 admittedly good-looking and well-cared-for pooches dashed away from me, each of them heading in a different direction, determined to fill their carts up with the best stuff the store had to offer.
Needless to say, it would be left to me to pick up the staples: the bread, the butter, the milk and the mayonnaise. No glamor there.
Within minutes, the meat section was devastated. (My fellas do love their meat.) Minutes later, the potato chips and the Cheetos were gone. Soon thereafter, the canned dog food section surrendered. Then it was the ice cream, followed by the salami and the bologna and the hot dogs, the donuts, the frozen pizzas, and (I should’ve known) the Frosted Flakes. Howie totally loves Frosted Flakes.
Fortunately, the store manager had marshalled all the other shoppers out of the store as soon as “the onslaught” had commenced. Otherwise who knows how many people could’ve been injured. As it was, by the time the checkers had rung everything up, I almost maxed out the company Master Card on all the foodstuff and the attendant damages.
We couldn’t squeeze everything into the bus (or was it that the guys were simply in too much of a hurry?), so we tied all of the carts in a line and dragged them home with us. One of the store employees hopped in his pickup and followed us, so he could return them to the store once we’d arrived at our “hideaway.” (Which, of course, didn’t function well as a “hideaway,” once he’d phoned our location to the county sheriff’s office…. Some things don’t change.)
Anyway, we got home safe and definitely full-up in the victuals department, so all in all: Mission Accomplished (as one of our lesser Presidents once proclaimed.)
So I can remind you: My guys knew that it’s real hard for a dog to get arrested, no matter how selfishly or dangerously they acted. And here we were, heading through the front door of a fully-stocked and welcoming grocery store. A veritable “recipe” for disaster.
And so it started right away. The shopping carts. Everybody had to have a shopping cart.
Remember: These aren’t just 8 random dogs. These are 8 of the best canine chefs on the planet. With egos (and energy) to match.
Just imagine the Indy 500, if you set it up so that the drivers didn’t start out already sitting in their cars at the starting line, but they had to run 100 yards first, then find an empty car (whichever car they could get to first) and jump in, start it up, and only then absolutely FLOOR IT out down the race track.
Well, that’s sorta what happened once we’d walked in the front down of the grocery store. Perfectly quiet, innocent, well-stocked and well-organized medium-sized grocery store. Maybe a little mood music playing from the ceiling. (I didn’t notice.)
And then all hell breaks loose.
It was like 8 bank robbers driving 8 getaway cars. (And think of the irony: We’d just gotten out of jail 10 hours earlier!)
I stood there speechless, as 8 admittedly good-looking and well-cared-for pooches dashed away from me, each of them heading in a different direction, determined to fill their carts up with the best stuff the store had to offer.
Needless to say, it would be left to me to pick up the staples: the bread, the butter, the milk and the mayonnaise. No glamor there.
Within minutes, the meat section was devastated. (My fellas do love their meat.) Minutes later, the potato chips and the Cheetos were gone. Soon thereafter, the canned dog food section surrendered. Then it was the ice cream, followed by the salami and the bologna and the hot dogs, the donuts, the frozen pizzas, and (I should’ve known) the Frosted Flakes. Howie totally loves Frosted Flakes.
Fortunately, the store manager had marshalled all the other shoppers out of the store as soon as “the onslaught” had commenced. Otherwise who knows how many people could’ve been injured. As it was, by the time the checkers had rung everything up, I almost maxed out the company Master Card on all the foodstuff and the attendant damages.
We couldn’t squeeze everything into the bus (or was it that the guys were simply in too much of a hurry?), so we tied all of the carts in a line and dragged them home with us. One of the store employees hopped in his pickup and followed us, so he could return them to the store once we’d arrived at our “hideaway.” (Which, of course, didn’t function well as a “hideaway,” once he’d phoned our location to the county sheriff’s office…. Some things don’t change.)
Anyway, we got home safe and definitely full-up in the victuals department, so all in all: Mission Accomplished (as one of our lesser Presidents once proclaimed.)
April 29, 2020
Of course the whole concept of “a secret hideaway” is ridiculous when you’ve got a group of 8 prima-donna dog chefs. Even if we hadn’t made our presence known at the aforementioned “Supermarket Sweep.” Plus, our return trip was kinda eye-catching: One big tour bus trailed by a chain of a half-dozen grocery carts. You don’t see that rumbling down Main Street every day.
But even if it hadn’t been for that, my guys can’t seem to go anywhere without word going almost immediately. The canine grapevine is indeed a thing of wonder.
So no sooner did we get to within a half a mile of the moss-laden, paint-peeling mansion that Barnacle Bill had “secured” for us, than we could hear the baying of what turned out to be no less than another 20 or so hungry pooches. As I said, word always seems to get around.
I had Bill pull over to the side of the road, a few hundred yards from the house, and I sent Howie and Butch out to scout our approach. I figured: If there’s already a full pack of neighborhood mutts, vagrants, and strays out front, who knows what else might be lurking in some darkened corner or out by the pool? (Think: process servers and/or angry ex-girlfriends.)
Butch came back muttering something about worthless layabout beagles and their always wanting to mind someone else’s business, but then he’s always complaining about something. (You’ve read his book. The cook fire’s always either too hot or too smoky for him. It’s always something with old Butch.) He just kept mumbling, to no one in particular, and then waddled to the back of the bus, plopped down on his bed, and went back to sleep. (Never lets his blood pressure get too high about anything, either, our Butch.)
But then Howie came scampering back and said, it wasn’t the beagles, it was a trio of Irish setters that had somehow tripped the security system, and the fire department had sent a couple of trucks out to snoop around. Couldn’t we see the flashing lights, Howie asked me.
You have to remember that Howie grew up on the streets of Chicago, and he has a beyond-healthy distaste for elements of governmental authority. Cops, social workers, meter maids, tow-truck drivers, even trash haulers give him the absolute heebie-jeebies. (Broke out in hives once, as I recall, just because a couple of pups from the South Chicago Canine Police Academy wanted to interview him for their student newspaper. The way he over-reacted, you’d have thought it was Inspector Jauvert in disguise or something.)
Well, after double-checking with Barnacle Bill that he had, in fact, disabled the security system completely before we’d left for the grocery store, I figured we hadn’t really done anything wrong—other than maybe settling up residence in this house without the owner’s knowledge, probably—so we might as well face the music.
But not, perhaps, without a bit of a diversion. A diversion helps… almost always, right?
So what did we do?
Simple.
I had Suzie and Fifi primp themselves up a bit, then sashay out of the bus and down the lane, acting for all the world as if they were… in heat. Serious heat.
Boy, you should’ve seen all those other dogs that had shown up uninvited, all those Rexes and Ralphs and Rovers, perk right up and get on with the chase! It was a full-out chariot race out there inside of a minute, round and round and round the house they went, while all the firemen (and one sheriff’s deputy) just looked on in amazement. We could’ve pulled off a bank robbery while all that racing around was going on.
If it hadn’t been so darned damp, they would’ve kicked a veritable tornado’s worth of dust. As it was, they all just kept getting muddier and muddier. I hoped the swimming pool was starting to get full. We’d be needing it to get all these doggies cleaned up, before we ever even considered letting them into the house. (There’s a certain minimum of good uninvited-guest behavior which I feel compelled to enforce with my guys, wherever we go.)
Meanwhile, we just creeped up to the house with the bus, and I sent Terry out back to check on whether the garden hose was still turned on and pouring much-needed water into the deep end of the pool.
And all the while, our humble Virginia version of Ben Hur was continuing around and around the house.
Something was gonna have to give, though, and soon. Fifi and Suzie were beginning to “flag,” so to speak, and I didn’t want imagine what would happen if any of these slavering dogs ever managed to actually catch them.
Of course the whole concept of “a secret hideaway” is ridiculous when you’ve got a group of 8 prima-donna dog chefs. Even if we hadn’t made our presence known at the aforementioned “Supermarket Sweep.” Plus, our return trip was kinda eye-catching: One big tour bus trailed by a chain of a half-dozen grocery carts. You don’t see that rumbling down Main Street every day.
But even if it hadn’t been for that, my guys can’t seem to go anywhere without word going almost immediately. The canine grapevine is indeed a thing of wonder.
So no sooner did we get to within a half a mile of the moss-laden, paint-peeling mansion that Barnacle Bill had “secured” for us, than we could hear the baying of what turned out to be no less than another 20 or so hungry pooches. As I said, word always seems to get around.
I had Bill pull over to the side of the road, a few hundred yards from the house, and I sent Howie and Butch out to scout our approach. I figured: If there’s already a full pack of neighborhood mutts, vagrants, and strays out front, who knows what else might be lurking in some darkened corner or out by the pool? (Think: process servers and/or angry ex-girlfriends.)
Butch came back muttering something about worthless layabout beagles and their always wanting to mind someone else’s business, but then he’s always complaining about something. (You’ve read his book. The cook fire’s always either too hot or too smoky for him. It’s always something with old Butch.) He just kept mumbling, to no one in particular, and then waddled to the back of the bus, plopped down on his bed, and went back to sleep. (Never lets his blood pressure get too high about anything, either, our Butch.)
But then Howie came scampering back and said, it wasn’t the beagles, it was a trio of Irish setters that had somehow tripped the security system, and the fire department had sent a couple of trucks out to snoop around. Couldn’t we see the flashing lights, Howie asked me.
You have to remember that Howie grew up on the streets of Chicago, and he has a beyond-healthy distaste for elements of governmental authority. Cops, social workers, meter maids, tow-truck drivers, even trash haulers give him the absolute heebie-jeebies. (Broke out in hives once, as I recall, just because a couple of pups from the South Chicago Canine Police Academy wanted to interview him for their student newspaper. The way he over-reacted, you’d have thought it was Inspector Jauvert in disguise or something.)
Well, after double-checking with Barnacle Bill that he had, in fact, disabled the security system completely before we’d left for the grocery store, I figured we hadn’t really done anything wrong—other than maybe settling up residence in this house without the owner’s knowledge, probably—so we might as well face the music.
But not, perhaps, without a bit of a diversion. A diversion helps… almost always, right?
So what did we do?
Simple.
I had Suzie and Fifi primp themselves up a bit, then sashay out of the bus and down the lane, acting for all the world as if they were… in heat. Serious heat.
Boy, you should’ve seen all those other dogs that had shown up uninvited, all those Rexes and Ralphs and Rovers, perk right up and get on with the chase! It was a full-out chariot race out there inside of a minute, round and round and round the house they went, while all the firemen (and one sheriff’s deputy) just looked on in amazement. We could’ve pulled off a bank robbery while all that racing around was going on.
If it hadn’t been so darned damp, they would’ve kicked a veritable tornado’s worth of dust. As it was, they all just kept getting muddier and muddier. I hoped the swimming pool was starting to get full. We’d be needing it to get all these doggies cleaned up, before we ever even considered letting them into the house. (There’s a certain minimum of good uninvited-guest behavior which I feel compelled to enforce with my guys, wherever we go.)
Meanwhile, we just creeped up to the house with the bus, and I sent Terry out back to check on whether the garden hose was still turned on and pouring much-needed water into the deep end of the pool.
And all the while, our humble Virginia version of Ben Hur was continuing around and around the house.
Something was gonna have to give, though, and soon. Fifi and Suzie were beginning to “flag,” so to speak, and I didn’t want imagine what would happen if any of these slavering dogs ever managed to actually catch them.
April 30, 2020
When it comes to dicey situations involving firemen (or any other first responders, I’d say), my money will always be on Mona Lassie. I mean, she’s been married to NYFD spokesman and longtime lead Canal Street firehouse hound Bruno Buonarroti basically forever (they still bunk down there whenever they’re in New York), so who better to palaver with the pros?
By the time we’d all piled out of the bus, Fifi and Suzie were still running laps around the perimeter of the house, followed (way too closely) by a pack of baying dogs. And you know the old joke about a dog chasing a truck? “What would he do if he ever caught one?” Well, it didn’t take too much imagination to envision precisely what one of these mutts would do to Fifi or Suzie, if they ever caught up to them.
But in a flash, Mona Lassie had jumped onto the back of the hook-and-ladder truck in front of the house. (Somehow the self-invited beagles had tripped the fire alarm, and so there were 2 different fire trucks on the scene.) And in another flash, she’d donned a fire helmet, barked a few cogent commands to the firemen who were just standing there watching the dogs race by, and started up the ladder to the cherry-picker.
Somehow the guy at the base of the ladder got the idea, because the next time Fifi and Suzie appeared around the far corner of the house, Mona Lassie waited a few precious seconds and then let rip at the pursuing pack of “potential paramours” with the full power of the fire hose. BLAM!
She kept at it for a full 30 seconds or more, until even the most resolute of the neighborhood Romeos was thoroughly drenched and defeated (and de-feeted). You’ve never seen such a sad bunch of bedraggled, wheezing, and shell-shocked mutts, laying there wondering what the heck had happened to them.
Fifi and Suzie, meanwhile, dashed straight through the front door and ran upstairs and bolted themselves into one of the bathrooms. (I found out later that, even though the “mansion” had clearly seen better days, and it appeared to have virtually abandoned, they found a few bottles of designer shampoo under a sink and treated themselves to a well-deserved bubble bath!)
Mona Lassie scampered back down the hook-and-ladder, gave the firemen a great big thank-you and offered to cook them up a true New York Italian dinner whenever they went off-duty and could make their way back to “the manse.”
Her offer accepted, the fire guys packed up both of their trucks and drove off back into town. Which left me facing only the sheriff’s deputy.
Who still didn’t look real pleased.
But Mona Lassie, as I said, has a way with these people, and so before I’d even had a chance to open my mouth (and probably make the situation even worse), Mona Lassie had taken “Deputy Rick” in paw and was walking around the front lawn area with him, talking quietly about something. What in the world could it have been?
When it comes to dicey situations involving firemen (or any other first responders, I’d say), my money will always be on Mona Lassie. I mean, she’s been married to NYFD spokesman and longtime lead Canal Street firehouse hound Bruno Buonarroti basically forever (they still bunk down there whenever they’re in New York), so who better to palaver with the pros?
By the time we’d all piled out of the bus, Fifi and Suzie were still running laps around the perimeter of the house, followed (way too closely) by a pack of baying dogs. And you know the old joke about a dog chasing a truck? “What would he do if he ever caught one?” Well, it didn’t take too much imagination to envision precisely what one of these mutts would do to Fifi or Suzie, if they ever caught up to them.
But in a flash, Mona Lassie had jumped onto the back of the hook-and-ladder truck in front of the house. (Somehow the self-invited beagles had tripped the fire alarm, and so there were 2 different fire trucks on the scene.) And in another flash, she’d donned a fire helmet, barked a few cogent commands to the firemen who were just standing there watching the dogs race by, and started up the ladder to the cherry-picker.
Somehow the guy at the base of the ladder got the idea, because the next time Fifi and Suzie appeared around the far corner of the house, Mona Lassie waited a few precious seconds and then let rip at the pursuing pack of “potential paramours” with the full power of the fire hose. BLAM!
She kept at it for a full 30 seconds or more, until even the most resolute of the neighborhood Romeos was thoroughly drenched and defeated (and de-feeted). You’ve never seen such a sad bunch of bedraggled, wheezing, and shell-shocked mutts, laying there wondering what the heck had happened to them.
Fifi and Suzie, meanwhile, dashed straight through the front door and ran upstairs and bolted themselves into one of the bathrooms. (I found out later that, even though the “mansion” had clearly seen better days, and it appeared to have virtually abandoned, they found a few bottles of designer shampoo under a sink and treated themselves to a well-deserved bubble bath!)
Mona Lassie scampered back down the hook-and-ladder, gave the firemen a great big thank-you and offered to cook them up a true New York Italian dinner whenever they went off-duty and could make their way back to “the manse.”
Her offer accepted, the fire guys packed up both of their trucks and drove off back into town. Which left me facing only the sheriff’s deputy.
Who still didn’t look real pleased.
But Mona Lassie, as I said, has a way with these people, and so before I’d even had a chance to open my mouth (and probably make the situation even worse), Mona Lassie had taken “Deputy Rick” in paw and was walking around the front lawn area with him, talking quietly about something. What in the world could it have been?
May 1, 2020
No. No. Absolutely not. No way.
I can’t tell you how many times I/we have been through this.
We all know that Mona Lassie is the ultimate grandmother. She’s always willing to care for anyone’s kids, always willing to nurture and comfort, especially the youngest ones. (Even the ugly ones.) And that’s admirable.
But it seems like every time I turn around, she’s found another pup who needs a home. And we’re not—repeat: NOT—a foundling home. Or a daycare center. Or a troupe of traveling philanthropists.
Not that we don’t care. It’s just not who we are. We’re a bunch of highly talented, highly ambitious (and often self-centered) dog chefs. We are NOT prospective adoptive parents to every stray puppy who walks down the road.
I should put a sign on the bus: “We are not accepting orphans today.”
So here we are, outside of this semi-abandoned (or at least seldom-repaired) mansion in Tidewater Virginia, and Mona Lassie’s walking around with a sheriff’s deputy (whom I will shortly come to know as “Deputy Rick”), and the two of them are speaking in hushed tones so that I can’t hear a word of what’s going on…
And I should’ve been able to figure this out. It’s not like I haven’t seen this play out… a hundred times.
And so then I see them open the back hatch of Rick’s sheriff’s vehicle, and (of course) there lie 2 of the cutest little sheepdog puppies you’d ever want to see.
And of course there’s a backstory.
No. No. Absolutely not. No way.
I can’t tell you how many times I/we have been through this.
We all know that Mona Lassie is the ultimate grandmother. She’s always willing to care for anyone’s kids, always willing to nurture and comfort, especially the youngest ones. (Even the ugly ones.) And that’s admirable.
But it seems like every time I turn around, she’s found another pup who needs a home. And we’re not—repeat: NOT—a foundling home. Or a daycare center. Or a troupe of traveling philanthropists.
Not that we don’t care. It’s just not who we are. We’re a bunch of highly talented, highly ambitious (and often self-centered) dog chefs. We are NOT prospective adoptive parents to every stray puppy who walks down the road.
I should put a sign on the bus: “We are not accepting orphans today.”
So here we are, outside of this semi-abandoned (or at least seldom-repaired) mansion in Tidewater Virginia, and Mona Lassie’s walking around with a sheriff’s deputy (whom I will shortly come to know as “Deputy Rick”), and the two of them are speaking in hushed tones so that I can’t hear a word of what’s going on…
And I should’ve been able to figure this out. It’s not like I haven’t seen this play out… a hundred times.
And so then I see them open the back hatch of Rick’s sheriff’s vehicle, and (of course) there lie 2 of the cutest little sheepdog puppies you’d ever want to see.
And of course there’s a backstory.
May 4, 2020
Correction: 4 of the cutest little sheepdog puppies you’d ever want to see.
(What can I say? It was getting dark, and they were all bundled up, lying in the back of Deputy Rick’s cop car.)
And of course there’s a backstory.
As it happened, just before he’d driven over to observe the slavering chariot races at our house, “Deputy Rick” had been called to a nearby farm whose husband-and-wife residents have been “a problem” for quite some time. (He didn’t want to get into the personal details.) And he’d sorted things out, calmed things down, without having to arrest anybody, but he hadn’t solved anything. (He said he never expected that he could.)
At any rate, as he was leaving, he heard this sad mewling coming from the adjacent barn, and poking his head inside, he found these 4 puppies hunkered down in a dirty comforter. They didn’t look happy, is how he phrased it, and there didn’t seem to be a Mommy sheepdog anywhere in sight.
So with a sigh, he trusted his luck and knocked on the couple’s front door again, and asked the wife about the youngsters. And she became instantly evasive, at first agreeing that the little ones seemed unhappy, and then pretending that she hadn’t even known they existed, and then saying that maybe one of their neighbors had abandoned the little ones there without telling her. Needless to say, the puppies didn’t look well cared-for. So Rick eventually decided to call “Animal Welfare” and ask for guidance.
In the end, he just bundled them into the back of his cop cruiser and figured that he’d drop them off at the local shelter when we went off-duty.
Now that he’d been befriended by Mona Lassie, of course, the plan had changed.
It always changes.
Which I can’t fault. Mona Lassie has a heart the size of Texas, and I’ve never seen her turn away from the plight of an orphaned child, so it was no surprise that she and Deputy Rick were already concocting “a plan.”
There’s always “a plan.” And, surprisingly (when it comes to Mona Lassie, at least), it always works out. Always. Boy, I wish that the rest of Life was so easy to deal with.
Correction: 4 of the cutest little sheepdog puppies you’d ever want to see.
(What can I say? It was getting dark, and they were all bundled up, lying in the back of Deputy Rick’s cop car.)
And of course there’s a backstory.
As it happened, just before he’d driven over to observe the slavering chariot races at our house, “Deputy Rick” had been called to a nearby farm whose husband-and-wife residents have been “a problem” for quite some time. (He didn’t want to get into the personal details.) And he’d sorted things out, calmed things down, without having to arrest anybody, but he hadn’t solved anything. (He said he never expected that he could.)
At any rate, as he was leaving, he heard this sad mewling coming from the adjacent barn, and poking his head inside, he found these 4 puppies hunkered down in a dirty comforter. They didn’t look happy, is how he phrased it, and there didn’t seem to be a Mommy sheepdog anywhere in sight.
So with a sigh, he trusted his luck and knocked on the couple’s front door again, and asked the wife about the youngsters. And she became instantly evasive, at first agreeing that the little ones seemed unhappy, and then pretending that she hadn’t even known they existed, and then saying that maybe one of their neighbors had abandoned the little ones there without telling her. Needless to say, the puppies didn’t look well cared-for. So Rick eventually decided to call “Animal Welfare” and ask for guidance.
In the end, he just bundled them into the back of his cop cruiser and figured that he’d drop them off at the local shelter when we went off-duty.
Now that he’d been befriended by Mona Lassie, of course, the plan had changed.
It always changes.
Which I can’t fault. Mona Lassie has a heart the size of Texas, and I’ve never seen her turn away from the plight of an orphaned child, so it was no surprise that she and Deputy Rick were already concocting “a plan.”
There’s always “a plan.” And, surprisingly (when it comes to Mona Lassie, at least), it always works out. Always. Boy, I wish that the rest of Life was so easy to deal with.
May 5, 2020
Before we could move forward with the plan for the 4 little sheepdogs, something had to be done to quiet down everyone else. Remember, Fifi and Suzie had escaped the mad chase around the yard and had “retired” to one of the upstairs bathrooms, where they were (no doubt) luxuriating in a fresh-scent bubble bath. I didn’t expect to see either of them anytime soon.
Which left a pack of sweaty, tired, and severely disappointed male pooches. Basically every male dog in the entire neighborhood. So what to do with them, before they decided to turn their ire elsewhere—like in my direction?
Fortunately, before we’d gone off to the grocery store, we’d gotten a garden hose hooked up and dropped it into the deep end of the long-neglected swimming pool. So by this time, several hours later, we had a good 2 feet of water in the pool, and I begged Howie and Terry to cajole our “guests” to enjoy an impromptu splash party.
An invitation that darn few self-respecting canines will refuse.
Howie found a rusty chaise longue, dragged it poolside, and set himself up as “lifeguard” and all-round party host. (Which my guys would’ve found fairly amusing, considering he’s the only one of us who really can’t swim.) (I know what you’re thinking: “A German Shepherd who can’t swim?” That’s right. That’s our Howie. He can un-cap a fire hydrant in a snap, flood a whole street corner in seconds, but all he’s really comfortable with is wading-pool-deep water. Anything up to his chin scares the heck out of him. But it’s a secret, well-kept. We all have our secrets, and we’re family, so we do a good job keeping each other’s secrets deeply buried.)
(You’re probably wondering what some of mine are. And I’m sure you’ll find out, in due course. But not right now.)
So before we knew it, Howie had started barking orders to everyone on how he expected them to behave. Common-sense swimming pool behavior, but stuff that of course most dogs will forget once everybody gets to horsing around. I don’t know where he found the whistle, but as soon as everyone had politely listened to “the rules” and promptly proceeded to ignore each and every one of them, Howie nearly blew himself senseless with that whistle. All to no avail, of course.
But by that time Barnacle Bill had found a good sturdy rope and had started organizing a lusty, good-natured game of team tug-of-war, and before you knew it, everyone was busy snarling ferociously and tugging this way and that, kicking up loads of spray and accomplishing absolutely nothing.
Except, of course, that everyone got a really good bath. Which was good, considering how much dust they’d all kicked chasing Fifi and Suzie around and around the yard just a few minutes earlier.
And Bill, the ever-resourceful sea-dog, kept the party going, after they’d all finally given up on ever winning at tug-of-war, by finding a few boogie boards and announcing that he was—right then and there—offering free surfing lessons! Right then and there! And who could turn that sort of offer down?
Before we could move forward with the plan for the 4 little sheepdogs, something had to be done to quiet down everyone else. Remember, Fifi and Suzie had escaped the mad chase around the yard and had “retired” to one of the upstairs bathrooms, where they were (no doubt) luxuriating in a fresh-scent bubble bath. I didn’t expect to see either of them anytime soon.
Which left a pack of sweaty, tired, and severely disappointed male pooches. Basically every male dog in the entire neighborhood. So what to do with them, before they decided to turn their ire elsewhere—like in my direction?
Fortunately, before we’d gone off to the grocery store, we’d gotten a garden hose hooked up and dropped it into the deep end of the long-neglected swimming pool. So by this time, several hours later, we had a good 2 feet of water in the pool, and I begged Howie and Terry to cajole our “guests” to enjoy an impromptu splash party.
An invitation that darn few self-respecting canines will refuse.
Howie found a rusty chaise longue, dragged it poolside, and set himself up as “lifeguard” and all-round party host. (Which my guys would’ve found fairly amusing, considering he’s the only one of us who really can’t swim.) (I know what you’re thinking: “A German Shepherd who can’t swim?” That’s right. That’s our Howie. He can un-cap a fire hydrant in a snap, flood a whole street corner in seconds, but all he’s really comfortable with is wading-pool-deep water. Anything up to his chin scares the heck out of him. But it’s a secret, well-kept. We all have our secrets, and we’re family, so we do a good job keeping each other’s secrets deeply buried.)
(You’re probably wondering what some of mine are. And I’m sure you’ll find out, in due course. But not right now.)
So before we knew it, Howie had started barking orders to everyone on how he expected them to behave. Common-sense swimming pool behavior, but stuff that of course most dogs will forget once everybody gets to horsing around. I don’t know where he found the whistle, but as soon as everyone had politely listened to “the rules” and promptly proceeded to ignore each and every one of them, Howie nearly blew himself senseless with that whistle. All to no avail, of course.
But by that time Barnacle Bill had found a good sturdy rope and had started organizing a lusty, good-natured game of team tug-of-war, and before you knew it, everyone was busy snarling ferociously and tugging this way and that, kicking up loads of spray and accomplishing absolutely nothing.
Except, of course, that everyone got a really good bath. Which was good, considering how much dust they’d all kicked chasing Fifi and Suzie around and around the yard just a few minutes earlier.
And Bill, the ever-resourceful sea-dog, kept the party going, after they’d all finally given up on ever winning at tug-of-war, by finding a few boogie boards and announcing that he was—right then and there—offering free surfing lessons! Right then and there! And who could turn that sort of offer down?
May 6, 2020
Meanwhile, I got Butch and Terry to get started in the kitchen. After all this ruckus and running around, and assuming that everyone didn’t drown in the pool, we were going to have a very large gang of very hungry dogs on our hands very soon.
Seeing as how we’d basically emptied out the grocery store on our group raid, we had plenty of food to go around. It was simply a question of what we should make.
Since speed was an issue, we didn’t have time to get a big barbeque going. Banking the coals and all that.
But cranking out meals—fast and in volume—was Terry’s specialty, going back to his days as a short-order cook at the Turntable Restaurant, at the Union Pacific’s switching yards in San Antonio. Fast and furious, was young Terry’s motto.
So Butch and Terry got to work in the kitchen, while Barnacle Bill was keeping busy in the pool, teaching the neighborhood bloodhounds how to hang eight. (As in pads.) It’s not easy. Try it some time. Especially when there are no waves. I mean, they were in a swimming pool.
Bill did his best: He had everybody kinda dog-paddle on one side of the pool and try to slosh in unison towards the middle of the pool—like all at once—so the one lone guy on the boogie board could get a little bit of a crest to work with. (They only had one boogie board, because right at the very beginning a pack of Labs got to fighting over the other three and broke them. They were still floating around in pieces, getting in the way of whoever was on the one remaining board. Sort of our own version of flotsam and jetsam.)
Just when everyone seemed to get bored with the surfing lessons, Terry rang the dinner bell, and boy, you should’ve seen how fast that swimming pool cleared out! Dogs were dripping everywhere, shaking out their coats and baying like they hadn’t eaten in years. I understand how a good fast-paced run can build up an appetite, and “the boys” had certainly kicked up their paws in their mad dash around the yard, but the way they were yelping, skittering around and sniffing like the house was on fire, you’d have thought that they’d never had a decent meal in their lives!
And speaking of things on fire, Terry and Butch had decided to lay out a down-on-the-border spread that was long long long on the spicy spicy. They started with a whole table-ful of Terry’s “Not Just Nachos” nacho plate, then laid out a second table’s worth of Terry’s “Tex-Mex Taco Grande.” (You can find the recipes to both of these sensations in Terry’s book.)
Wow! Did those dogs demolish those! In a flash!
Butch was working that electric can opener so fast-- like a magician-- I thought it was gonna overheat and just die. (And that’s one of the secrets to Terry’s tacos: Use only the best. Alpo Homestyle Prime Cuts- Beef, Bacon, & Cheese.) (And we like to advertise our favorites, while we’re at it. Alpo’s always been really good at showing their “appreciation” when we mention their brand. Not that we’re asking for a payoff or anything… It’s just good to know who your friends are.)
But he kept at it. After he’d run through all the cans we’d bought at the store, he went to work slicing up the last of the green chiles and slathering them with Cheez Whiz. Boy, did those set some mouths on fire!
Meanwhile, I got Butch and Terry to get started in the kitchen. After all this ruckus and running around, and assuming that everyone didn’t drown in the pool, we were going to have a very large gang of very hungry dogs on our hands very soon.
Seeing as how we’d basically emptied out the grocery store on our group raid, we had plenty of food to go around. It was simply a question of what we should make.
Since speed was an issue, we didn’t have time to get a big barbeque going. Banking the coals and all that.
But cranking out meals—fast and in volume—was Terry’s specialty, going back to his days as a short-order cook at the Turntable Restaurant, at the Union Pacific’s switching yards in San Antonio. Fast and furious, was young Terry’s motto.
So Butch and Terry got to work in the kitchen, while Barnacle Bill was keeping busy in the pool, teaching the neighborhood bloodhounds how to hang eight. (As in pads.) It’s not easy. Try it some time. Especially when there are no waves. I mean, they were in a swimming pool.
Bill did his best: He had everybody kinda dog-paddle on one side of the pool and try to slosh in unison towards the middle of the pool—like all at once—so the one lone guy on the boogie board could get a little bit of a crest to work with. (They only had one boogie board, because right at the very beginning a pack of Labs got to fighting over the other three and broke them. They were still floating around in pieces, getting in the way of whoever was on the one remaining board. Sort of our own version of flotsam and jetsam.)
Just when everyone seemed to get bored with the surfing lessons, Terry rang the dinner bell, and boy, you should’ve seen how fast that swimming pool cleared out! Dogs were dripping everywhere, shaking out their coats and baying like they hadn’t eaten in years. I understand how a good fast-paced run can build up an appetite, and “the boys” had certainly kicked up their paws in their mad dash around the yard, but the way they were yelping, skittering around and sniffing like the house was on fire, you’d have thought that they’d never had a decent meal in their lives!
And speaking of things on fire, Terry and Butch had decided to lay out a down-on-the-border spread that was long long long on the spicy spicy. They started with a whole table-ful of Terry’s “Not Just Nachos” nacho plate, then laid out a second table’s worth of Terry’s “Tex-Mex Taco Grande.” (You can find the recipes to both of these sensations in Terry’s book.)
Wow! Did those dogs demolish those! In a flash!
Butch was working that electric can opener so fast-- like a magician-- I thought it was gonna overheat and just die. (And that’s one of the secrets to Terry’s tacos: Use only the best. Alpo Homestyle Prime Cuts- Beef, Bacon, & Cheese.) (And we like to advertise our favorites, while we’re at it. Alpo’s always been really good at showing their “appreciation” when we mention their brand. Not that we’re asking for a payoff or anything… It’s just good to know who your friends are.)
But he kept at it. After he’d run through all the cans we’d bought at the store, he went to work slicing up the last of the green chiles and slathering them with Cheez Whiz. Boy, did those set some mouths on fire!
May 7, 2020
It’s a good thing we’d stocked up on plenty (and I mean plenty!) of cottage cheese when we were at the store, because the neighborhood dogs clearly weren’t battle-hardened against spicy food. I don’t know what their regular diet was. Maybe they got to feast on crab or clams or possum or miscellaneous roadkill, but they weren’t used to red-hot chiles. That much was obvious.
And if we hadn’t had all that cottage cheese, we’d probably have had to whip out the ice cream to cool things off. (And my guys really like their ice cream, so we didn’t want that going to waste on our (uninvited) guests.
As it was, they went through tub after tub of cottage cheese, and you could still see the smoke coming out of their ears.
So once the cottage cheese was gone, we had them drink up several gallons of Kool Aid (which helps a bit, I’ve found. It must be the sugar, or maybe just the distraction of something that isn’t plain water.) And after that, Barnacle Bill broke out the scuba gear he’d found in the boathouse and coaxed them all back in the pool.
You should’ve seen some of those guys floundering around with swim fins on!
It’s a good thing we’d stocked up on plenty (and I mean plenty!) of cottage cheese when we were at the store, because the neighborhood dogs clearly weren’t battle-hardened against spicy food. I don’t know what their regular diet was. Maybe they got to feast on crab or clams or possum or miscellaneous roadkill, but they weren’t used to red-hot chiles. That much was obvious.
And if we hadn’t had all that cottage cheese, we’d probably have had to whip out the ice cream to cool things off. (And my guys really like their ice cream, so we didn’t want that going to waste on our (uninvited) guests.
As it was, they went through tub after tub of cottage cheese, and you could still see the smoke coming out of their ears.
So once the cottage cheese was gone, we had them drink up several gallons of Kool Aid (which helps a bit, I’ve found. It must be the sugar, or maybe just the distraction of something that isn’t plain water.) And after that, Barnacle Bill broke out the scuba gear he’d found in the boathouse and coaxed them all back in the pool.
You should’ve seen some of those guys floundering around with swim fins on!
May 8, 2020
Meanwhile, back at Deputy Rick’s cop cruiser, Mona Lassie had been keeping the 4 young sheepdog puppies comfortable and sheltered from all the noise and potentially dangerous (for puppies) poolside pushing and shoving. I’m pretty sure that the neighborhood dogs weren’t even aware that a brood of puppies was nearby, which I hoped would stay that way. No good could come from getting their curiosity up. (Fifi and Suzie could attest to that.)
But the little ones couldn’t spend the rest of the night in Deputy Rick’s Tahoe. He and Mona Lassie didn’t want them to wind up at the local shelter, and he couldn’t take them home with him. He said that his wife would want to adopt all 4 of them as soon as she set eyes on them. (That’s how she was, which is admirable, but also impractical. This wasn’t the first—and wouldn’t be the last—batch of foundlings that Rick had to deal with as a peace officer.)
So what to do?
This, of course, is where I normally was forced to come in. Our troupe, being a bunch of fun-loving and also deeply caring pooches, winds up being presented with any number of “unwanted” dogs in the course of our travels. But we’re not an animal hospital or an adoption service. We’re a bus-load of 8 very highly-strung, self-centered, often combustible, easy-to-take-offense, basically immature and irresponsible…
I could go on and on. Sure, I love these guys, but they would never—NEVER—make decent parents. Much less role models.
And yet, with seemingly every turn of the road, we wind up encountering young pups who fantasize about “running away with the circus.” (Which would be an apt enough term, a lot of the time, given the way my guys can behave.) Other times a basket of little ones gets left at the door of the bus. And sometimes, like this time, a well-meaning (and out-of-other-ideas) do-gooder like Deputy Rick shows up to offer up yet another batch of little darlings.
Well, even if we wanted to, we can’t adopt them all. (Actually, there are probably—or should be-- all sorts of state and local laws against a group of prima donna dogs, who can’t even get along amongst themselves half of the time, taking in innocent puppies who could irredeemably be mis-trained and taught all sorts of unhealthy and anti-social behavior by dogs just like mine. I know, if I was a state legislator, I’d be passing some laws. “To protect the common weal,” as they say.)
Anyway, we couldn’t (I wouldn’t) adopt these 4 cute sheepdog puppies. We were on a road trip! I didn’t know if we were staying in the house with the owner’s permission. I didn’t know if Butch would decide, early tomorrow morning, to get a cook-fire started in the barbeque grill out back and burn the whole place down. (He’s done it before.) And I had no idea where we were heading after we finished trashing this place. So we certainly weren’t going to be adopting any puppies—no matter how cute—when we didn’t even know where we’d be laying our heads next week… or the week after…. We’d just gotten out of jail!
But they were adorable.
Meanwhile, back at Deputy Rick’s cop cruiser, Mona Lassie had been keeping the 4 young sheepdog puppies comfortable and sheltered from all the noise and potentially dangerous (for puppies) poolside pushing and shoving. I’m pretty sure that the neighborhood dogs weren’t even aware that a brood of puppies was nearby, which I hoped would stay that way. No good could come from getting their curiosity up. (Fifi and Suzie could attest to that.)
But the little ones couldn’t spend the rest of the night in Deputy Rick’s Tahoe. He and Mona Lassie didn’t want them to wind up at the local shelter, and he couldn’t take them home with him. He said that his wife would want to adopt all 4 of them as soon as she set eyes on them. (That’s how she was, which is admirable, but also impractical. This wasn’t the first—and wouldn’t be the last—batch of foundlings that Rick had to deal with as a peace officer.)
So what to do?
This, of course, is where I normally was forced to come in. Our troupe, being a bunch of fun-loving and also deeply caring pooches, winds up being presented with any number of “unwanted” dogs in the course of our travels. But we’re not an animal hospital or an adoption service. We’re a bus-load of 8 very highly-strung, self-centered, often combustible, easy-to-take-offense, basically immature and irresponsible…
I could go on and on. Sure, I love these guys, but they would never—NEVER—make decent parents. Much less role models.
And yet, with seemingly every turn of the road, we wind up encountering young pups who fantasize about “running away with the circus.” (Which would be an apt enough term, a lot of the time, given the way my guys can behave.) Other times a basket of little ones gets left at the door of the bus. And sometimes, like this time, a well-meaning (and out-of-other-ideas) do-gooder like Deputy Rick shows up to offer up yet another batch of little darlings.
Well, even if we wanted to, we can’t adopt them all. (Actually, there are probably—or should be-- all sorts of state and local laws against a group of prima donna dogs, who can’t even get along amongst themselves half of the time, taking in innocent puppies who could irredeemably be mis-trained and taught all sorts of unhealthy and anti-social behavior by dogs just like mine. I know, if I was a state legislator, I’d be passing some laws. “To protect the common weal,” as they say.)
Anyway, we couldn’t (I wouldn’t) adopt these 4 cute sheepdog puppies. We were on a road trip! I didn’t know if we were staying in the house with the owner’s permission. I didn’t know if Butch would decide, early tomorrow morning, to get a cook-fire started in the barbeque grill out back and burn the whole place down. (He’s done it before.) And I had no idea where we were heading after we finished trashing this place. So we certainly weren’t going to be adopting any puppies—no matter how cute—when we didn’t even know where we’d be laying our heads next week… or the week after…. We’d just gotten out of jail!
But they were adorable.
May 11, 2020
I was about to explain the “plan” that Mona Lassie and Deputy Rick had “cooked up” about taking care of thes 4 little cuties, but I need to digress a bit.
Because you, our faithful readers, like to keep kept abreast of how everyone—everyone—is doing, and you haven’t heard anything about our 8th member, Maggie Scroungehound, for a while. So I realized, just now, that I should explain to you where she’d been during this latest episode.
And the answer is: She’d been spending most of her time back in the bus. Not because she was ill, or feeling out-of-sorts or unhappy with this latest twist in our circus-like tour. No, she was still unhappy (and angry, really) at what had happened in Baltimore.
Now, I’m sure you read all about it in the newspapers and on-line, and you don’t need me to re-hash the whole thing. Or give you MY SIDE of the story, which admittedly would be more than a little biased (in our favor). And I certainly don’t need to re-live all the sordid details, either. It’s not a basket of pleasant memories for me.
But as you know, Maggie was raised in the household of a very famous constitutional law professor (at Yale), and I won’t go so far as to say that she acquired a MEAN STREAK from him, but she most certainly acquired a LITIGIOUS streak. With the quite-occasional sense of grievance. (You could read more about her background in the Bio section of her book, “Leftovers for Labs.”)
Anyway, with that sense of grievance still at work, she seemed determined to get our conviction in Baltimore overturned. (What probably really irked her was the night in jail, but the rest of us seemed to pretty much enjoy ourselves, as I recall. But maybe that’s just hindsight.)
So while all this dashing around the yard was happening, with the neighborhood “young bloods” chasing (and thankfully failing to catch) the alluring Fifi LeFay and the equally alluring Suzie Snow Peas, and while Butch and Terry getting dinner ready for the mutitudes, and Barnacle Bill was giving surfing lessons and Howie was pretending to play lifeguard, Maggie the Dogged Defense Attorney was back in the bus, “working the phones.”
I’m sure she wore out a cell phone or two before she was done, calling every legal-defense team and pro-bono (or bone) outfit and sympathetic old-friend/judge she could think of. (I think I overheard her pitching her case to Ruth Bader Ginsburg at one point, when I’d retuned to the bus to grab my own cell phone so I could check in with Chow Team HQ.) (And think of it: How many dogs, would you imagine, would have RBG’s home phone number in their short list of contacts?... And how many dogs would RBG answer the phone for, pretty late at night?)
I finally had to yank the phone out of Maggie’s paw and try to calm her down, by reminding her that we hadn’t actually been convicted of anything. We’d never even been brought up in front of a judge. The precinct captain in Baltimore where this all happened simply hadn’t felt comfortable letting us “sleep it off” in our own bus, that night, so he’d (kindly, more or less) asked me if we wouldn’t “accommodate him” by agreeing to pass the night as “guests” of the jail.
And aside from Maggie, the rest of us seemed to have a perfectly pleasant evening bunked down there. Dinner had been great. (And sure, breakfast wasn’t real good, but that can happen anywhere.) And we’d met some new friends (and probably made some new fans).
But Maggie didn’t want to let it drop. It was the indignation, the humiliation of having spent a night in “the slammer” that really angered her, so she seemed fully prepared to spend all night calling anybody she could think of to get our “record” expunged. And the fact that we didn’t actually have a record, as I just explained, didn’t seem to penetrate her consciousness.
What I finally thought of that did upset her train of thought was something you probably guessed straight-off: I went back to the bus, grabbed the phone out of her paw yet again, and told her that she going to miss dinner of she kept at it much longer.
Well, that did it in a flash! She was out the door of the bus before I could say another word.
And she didn’t let all the neighborhood dogs keep her from either buffet table. Not the nachos, not the tacos. (And she didn’t need any of the tongue-soothing cottage cheese when she finished, either. I think she’d have kept going back for more, if Butch and Terry hadn’t finally announced that the kitchen was closed.)
So needless to say, Maggie finally got her fill, and after that, she found a quiet section of the swimming pool and let herself relax for a while.
It had been a long day (they always seem to be long days with this bunch), and she deserved a little down time.
I was about to explain the “plan” that Mona Lassie and Deputy Rick had “cooked up” about taking care of thes 4 little cuties, but I need to digress a bit.
Because you, our faithful readers, like to keep kept abreast of how everyone—everyone—is doing, and you haven’t heard anything about our 8th member, Maggie Scroungehound, for a while. So I realized, just now, that I should explain to you where she’d been during this latest episode.
And the answer is: She’d been spending most of her time back in the bus. Not because she was ill, or feeling out-of-sorts or unhappy with this latest twist in our circus-like tour. No, she was still unhappy (and angry, really) at what had happened in Baltimore.
Now, I’m sure you read all about it in the newspapers and on-line, and you don’t need me to re-hash the whole thing. Or give you MY SIDE of the story, which admittedly would be more than a little biased (in our favor). And I certainly don’t need to re-live all the sordid details, either. It’s not a basket of pleasant memories for me.
But as you know, Maggie was raised in the household of a very famous constitutional law professor (at Yale), and I won’t go so far as to say that she acquired a MEAN STREAK from him, but she most certainly acquired a LITIGIOUS streak. With the quite-occasional sense of grievance. (You could read more about her background in the Bio section of her book, “Leftovers for Labs.”)
Anyway, with that sense of grievance still at work, she seemed determined to get our conviction in Baltimore overturned. (What probably really irked her was the night in jail, but the rest of us seemed to pretty much enjoy ourselves, as I recall. But maybe that’s just hindsight.)
So while all this dashing around the yard was happening, with the neighborhood “young bloods” chasing (and thankfully failing to catch) the alluring Fifi LeFay and the equally alluring Suzie Snow Peas, and while Butch and Terry getting dinner ready for the mutitudes, and Barnacle Bill was giving surfing lessons and Howie was pretending to play lifeguard, Maggie the Dogged Defense Attorney was back in the bus, “working the phones.”
I’m sure she wore out a cell phone or two before she was done, calling every legal-defense team and pro-bono (or bone) outfit and sympathetic old-friend/judge she could think of. (I think I overheard her pitching her case to Ruth Bader Ginsburg at one point, when I’d retuned to the bus to grab my own cell phone so I could check in with Chow Team HQ.) (And think of it: How many dogs, would you imagine, would have RBG’s home phone number in their short list of contacts?... And how many dogs would RBG answer the phone for, pretty late at night?)
I finally had to yank the phone out of Maggie’s paw and try to calm her down, by reminding her that we hadn’t actually been convicted of anything. We’d never even been brought up in front of a judge. The precinct captain in Baltimore where this all happened simply hadn’t felt comfortable letting us “sleep it off” in our own bus, that night, so he’d (kindly, more or less) asked me if we wouldn’t “accommodate him” by agreeing to pass the night as “guests” of the jail.
And aside from Maggie, the rest of us seemed to have a perfectly pleasant evening bunked down there. Dinner had been great. (And sure, breakfast wasn’t real good, but that can happen anywhere.) And we’d met some new friends (and probably made some new fans).
But Maggie didn’t want to let it drop. It was the indignation, the humiliation of having spent a night in “the slammer” that really angered her, so she seemed fully prepared to spend all night calling anybody she could think of to get our “record” expunged. And the fact that we didn’t actually have a record, as I just explained, didn’t seem to penetrate her consciousness.
What I finally thought of that did upset her train of thought was something you probably guessed straight-off: I went back to the bus, grabbed the phone out of her paw yet again, and told her that she going to miss dinner of she kept at it much longer.
Well, that did it in a flash! She was out the door of the bus before I could say another word.
And she didn’t let all the neighborhood dogs keep her from either buffet table. Not the nachos, not the tacos. (And she didn’t need any of the tongue-soothing cottage cheese when she finished, either. I think she’d have kept going back for more, if Butch and Terry hadn’t finally announced that the kitchen was closed.)
So needless to say, Maggie finally got her fill, and after that, she found a quiet section of the swimming pool and let herself relax for a while.
It had been a long day (they always seem to be long days with this bunch), and she deserved a little down time.
May 12, 2020
So, back to the action:
The basic gist of “the plan,” as Mona Lassie and Deputy Rick explained it to me, was:
We all agreed that the 4 admittedly adorable little young sheepdogs couldn’t stay with us. Joining our circus was just not going to work. They needed stable homes, caring fulltime parents, dogs who’d lead by example. By which I mean: good example. My guys could lead by example as well as anyone, but that example might not always (or even usually) be seen as “good” example.
So…
Deputy Rick’s wife just happened to work for a local cable-TV station in Richmond, which was sort-of right across the Rappahannock River from where we were staying. (Deputy Rick didn’t know that we hadn’t actually been formally “invited” to stay at this run-down and seemingly deserted mansion, and I wasn’t about to tell him.)
Anyway, Deputy Rick’s wife Allison, who according to Rick would’ve adopted all 4 of these cute puppies if he’d brought them home with him, and Rick didn’t think that was such a good idea, seeing as how they already had 2 Golden retrievers whom they—Rick and his wife Allison—didn’t spend enough quality time with as is… Anyway, Allison worked for this local cable-TV station in Richmond, and just that coming weekend ( 2 days hence) the radio station was scheduled to do a big blowout “live remote” from a upscale shopping mall in the suburbs somewhere. A new “major retailer” store opening, lots of giveaways and parking lot contests and prizes for damn-near-everything and damn-near-everybody. You know, the kind of thing where there’s a DJ and an MC and free food (my guys would love that!) and maybe a hot-air balloon tethered to the back of the TV-station’s pickup truck and giving free rides to the kids with their moms.
So Deputy Rick had called his wife and checked with her, and her (brilliant) idea was:
Why not have my guys do a cooking show? Right there in the parking lot. It would be a great addition to the shopping mall promotion, plus…
Plus… my guys are total hams. They absolutely LOVE being on camera. Any camera.
We all know that, right?
So, back to the action:
The basic gist of “the plan,” as Mona Lassie and Deputy Rick explained it to me, was:
We all agreed that the 4 admittedly adorable little young sheepdogs couldn’t stay with us. Joining our circus was just not going to work. They needed stable homes, caring fulltime parents, dogs who’d lead by example. By which I mean: good example. My guys could lead by example as well as anyone, but that example might not always (or even usually) be seen as “good” example.
So…
Deputy Rick’s wife just happened to work for a local cable-TV station in Richmond, which was sort-of right across the Rappahannock River from where we were staying. (Deputy Rick didn’t know that we hadn’t actually been formally “invited” to stay at this run-down and seemingly deserted mansion, and I wasn’t about to tell him.)
Anyway, Deputy Rick’s wife Allison, who according to Rick would’ve adopted all 4 of these cute puppies if he’d brought them home with him, and Rick didn’t think that was such a good idea, seeing as how they already had 2 Golden retrievers whom they—Rick and his wife Allison—didn’t spend enough quality time with as is… Anyway, Allison worked for this local cable-TV station in Richmond, and just that coming weekend ( 2 days hence) the radio station was scheduled to do a big blowout “live remote” from a upscale shopping mall in the suburbs somewhere. A new “major retailer” store opening, lots of giveaways and parking lot contests and prizes for damn-near-everything and damn-near-everybody. You know, the kind of thing where there’s a DJ and an MC and free food (my guys would love that!) and maybe a hot-air balloon tethered to the back of the TV-station’s pickup truck and giving free rides to the kids with their moms.
So Deputy Rick had called his wife and checked with her, and her (brilliant) idea was:
Why not have my guys do a cooking show? Right there in the parking lot. It would be a great addition to the shopping mall promotion, plus…
Plus… my guys are total hams. They absolutely LOVE being on camera. Any camera.
We all know that, right?
May 13, 2020
This idea was almost too obvious for words. Deputy Rick’s wife Allison could set the whole thing up, with Mona Lassie assisting, of course. (Mona Lassie assured me that she’d take care of everything. I wouldn’t have to lift a finger… I’ve heard that before, of course, but I’m a trusting sort of guy.)
The biggest challenge might well be just WHO was going to play the on-camera chef. Or whether it might be more than one of us. We certainly couldn’t have EVERYBODY on-stage. That’d wind up a free-for-all. (We’ve had those before. I didn’t want to repeat that experience.)
But anyway, we’d have a terrific cooking demonstration, hand out lots of free food. The moms would probably be happy that their kids might wind up eating something actually half-nutritious, rather than the usual parking-lot promotion featuring boiled hot dogs, bags of Cheetos, and super-sugary drinks.
It was a good thing that this was a TV station we were talking about, because they’d have the capability to not just film the demo, but they should also be able to erect a Jumbotron (or maybe two!) as well, so everybody could see the demonstration up-close-and-personal.
(And my guys really LOVE seeing themselves on a Jumbotron. Until they get confused, which usually happens. You see, they like seeing themselves, but when they’re admiring themselves on-screen, they wind up turning their backs to the camera, so all they see up on the big screen is their butt. Which most of them feel is not exactly their best side. So then they have to whip around to face the camera, but then they can no longer see themselves up on the screen. So the whole thing becomes a sorta farcical stupidly-grinning-dog-chasing-its-tail until he/she gets dizzy and decides to just lay down and take a nap sort-of performance. Maybe we’d be able to avoid that somehow. I’d have to give it some thought… before the big day arrived.)
But other than that, what could possibly go wrong?
This idea was almost too obvious for words. Deputy Rick’s wife Allison could set the whole thing up, with Mona Lassie assisting, of course. (Mona Lassie assured me that she’d take care of everything. I wouldn’t have to lift a finger… I’ve heard that before, of course, but I’m a trusting sort of guy.)
The biggest challenge might well be just WHO was going to play the on-camera chef. Or whether it might be more than one of us. We certainly couldn’t have EVERYBODY on-stage. That’d wind up a free-for-all. (We’ve had those before. I didn’t want to repeat that experience.)
But anyway, we’d have a terrific cooking demonstration, hand out lots of free food. The moms would probably be happy that their kids might wind up eating something actually half-nutritious, rather than the usual parking-lot promotion featuring boiled hot dogs, bags of Cheetos, and super-sugary drinks.
It was a good thing that this was a TV station we were talking about, because they’d have the capability to not just film the demo, but they should also be able to erect a Jumbotron (or maybe two!) as well, so everybody could see the demonstration up-close-and-personal.
(And my guys really LOVE seeing themselves on a Jumbotron. Until they get confused, which usually happens. You see, they like seeing themselves, but when they’re admiring themselves on-screen, they wind up turning their backs to the camera, so all they see up on the big screen is their butt. Which most of them feel is not exactly their best side. So then they have to whip around to face the camera, but then they can no longer see themselves up on the screen. So the whole thing becomes a sorta farcical stupidly-grinning-dog-chasing-its-tail until he/she gets dizzy and decides to just lay down and take a nap sort-of performance. Maybe we’d be able to avoid that somehow. I’d have to give it some thought… before the big day arrived.)
But other than that, what could possibly go wrong?
May 14, 2020
I haven’t explained, of course, just what this great idea had to do with finding these 4 cute baby sheepdogs a home, but I assume you can guess.
Mona Lassie and Deputy Rick’s idea was that, with all the kids and moms who’d be attending this event (we hoped!), it’d be a piece of cake to spend a fair amount of “screen time” introducing these 4 cuddly canines to prospective adopters. What kid wouldn’t want a beautiful and silky-smooth little puppy? (We’d have to make sure that we cleaned them up real good. But we had a full-sized swimming pool. So assuming they didn’t drown, getting them a thorough bath shouldn’t be a problem.)
Mona Lassie’s secondary idea was that all of us who weren’t actually on-stage doing the cookig demonstration could act as the “selection committee.” As in: we could interview prospective new-puppy owners and make sure that all of these little ones would get placed in caring, safe, and affectionate family environments. (Which are tour bus environment certainly would never qualify as.)
I think Mona Lassie was placing too much faith in our guys to have the patience to weed through all the throngs of prospective owners to do a responsible job. I thought it’d be far more likely, with all the free food being given out and all the other dogs that folks would’ve brought along to the mall, that my guys would get distracted almost instantly from the “job at paw” and just go racing around chasing whatever other dogs caught their fancy. Maybe I was being overly pessimistic, but I kept my thoughts to myself. Because I didn’t have a better idea. And I was sure that Mona Lassie would never let any of these cute innocent young sheepdogs go to a family that wouldn’t be the absolute right people.
Deputy Rick’s wife signed off on the whole thing, over the telephone, except for the Jumbotron. She said she’d have to get back to us on that.
I asked Deputy Rick to make sure that he wasn’t going to get in hot water with his bosses, over being officially/semi-officially involved in placing unwanted dogs in the community, independent of the folks at the local shelter. (You know how everyone likes to protect their turf.) He said he was only worried about this one animal-control officer who’d been making noises about running for higher office.
(My take: higher office? Like what? Public health commissioner? District attorney? Mayor? And he was gonna make a big issue out of a handful of puppies? Like this could be his ticket to the big time?... I’d love to write that guy’s biography: From lowly dog-catcher to President…. Stranger things have happened!)
Anyway, Deputy Rick seemed to think that we could just run this “adoption racket” on the Q.T, and nobody would raise a fuss. Just his use of the phrase “adoption racket” made me shiver, but I had a lot of faith in Mona Lassie. I was sure that she could pull this off.
I mean, just look at her: Is she the ultimate grandmother, or what? She wouldn’t let any harm come to these little ones.
I haven’t explained, of course, just what this great idea had to do with finding these 4 cute baby sheepdogs a home, but I assume you can guess.
Mona Lassie and Deputy Rick’s idea was that, with all the kids and moms who’d be attending this event (we hoped!), it’d be a piece of cake to spend a fair amount of “screen time” introducing these 4 cuddly canines to prospective adopters. What kid wouldn’t want a beautiful and silky-smooth little puppy? (We’d have to make sure that we cleaned them up real good. But we had a full-sized swimming pool. So assuming they didn’t drown, getting them a thorough bath shouldn’t be a problem.)
Mona Lassie’s secondary idea was that all of us who weren’t actually on-stage doing the cookig demonstration could act as the “selection committee.” As in: we could interview prospective new-puppy owners and make sure that all of these little ones would get placed in caring, safe, and affectionate family environments. (Which are tour bus environment certainly would never qualify as.)
I think Mona Lassie was placing too much faith in our guys to have the patience to weed through all the throngs of prospective owners to do a responsible job. I thought it’d be far more likely, with all the free food being given out and all the other dogs that folks would’ve brought along to the mall, that my guys would get distracted almost instantly from the “job at paw” and just go racing around chasing whatever other dogs caught their fancy. Maybe I was being overly pessimistic, but I kept my thoughts to myself. Because I didn’t have a better idea. And I was sure that Mona Lassie would never let any of these cute innocent young sheepdogs go to a family that wouldn’t be the absolute right people.
Deputy Rick’s wife signed off on the whole thing, over the telephone, except for the Jumbotron. She said she’d have to get back to us on that.
I asked Deputy Rick to make sure that he wasn’t going to get in hot water with his bosses, over being officially/semi-officially involved in placing unwanted dogs in the community, independent of the folks at the local shelter. (You know how everyone likes to protect their turf.) He said he was only worried about this one animal-control officer who’d been making noises about running for higher office.
(My take: higher office? Like what? Public health commissioner? District attorney? Mayor? And he was gonna make a big issue out of a handful of puppies? Like this could be his ticket to the big time?... I’d love to write that guy’s biography: From lowly dog-catcher to President…. Stranger things have happened!)
Anyway, Deputy Rick seemed to think that we could just run this “adoption racket” on the Q.T, and nobody would raise a fuss. Just his use of the phrase “adoption racket” made me shiver, but I had a lot of faith in Mona Lassie. I was sure that she could pull this off.
I mean, just look at her: Is she the ultimate grandmother, or what? She wouldn’t let any harm come to these little ones.
May 15, 2020
That still left us with the issue of who was going to do the show.
Talk about a contentious issue! I didn’t know how we (Mona Lassie and I) were going to even introduce the question. Could we just wait until we were all lounging around the pool tomorrow, maybe after a really filling lunch, and then casually throw out something like, “Gee, wouldn’t it be fun, maybe, if we were ever to get back to really doing cooking shows again. Like in the good old days, when the guys at the Network weren’t so mad at us and we each had our own shows? Remember those days?”
And then, invariably, somebody would start growsing about how “we were never appreciated anyway.” And how “all they wanted to mae money off of us.”
And then I’d have to point out, in fairness, that our numerous fans must be longing for the days when we would return to the airwaves. They must really miss being able to tune in and see their favorite chefs showing off their skills, telling a few jokes, sharing some new recipes with them all.
To which my guys, with incomparable false modesty, would have to nod their heads and agree: Our fans must be missing all of that. Sorely missing all of that.
Which would then lead to ever louder griping. About how the idiots at Corporate didn’t get it. Didn’t understand how important it was—to our innumerable fans—that my guys’ shows should be allowed to continue…. With bigger budgets. And better sets. And, while we were at it, better wardrobe. Maybe more on-location shoots. Exotic locales.
You know: Terry could take his Tex-Mex for everyone show, “Turning the Tables… on Boring Food!” to Acapulco, maybe. Why not? That’d be absolutely great for the ratings.
He reminded everybody about how well-received his triumphant-return-to-his-roots-in-San-Antonio weeks’ worth of shows had been. Well, a bit of a travelogue would do even better. Couldn’t we all flat-out envision him cliff-diving down in Acapulco? Doing his famous Two-Toned Terrier Swan Dive?
And then, of course, as soon as Terry really started getting revved up about this idea, Suzie decided that she could really use a return-trip show of her own to her grandmother’s house in Guangzhou. Everybody knew that her whole “ouevre” was travel-based. From the very beginning--
At which point Butch interrupted and started growsing about he never seemed to go anywhere--
Which everybody else seemed to think was total nonsense. Hadn’t he just gotten back from that trip to Chattanooga?
And so the squabbling grew louder and louder, with nobody letting anyone else get a word in edgewise, and I found myself wondering whether maybe Mona Lassie and I should’ve tried another approach.
This, friends, was our life on the road. As so often happened, I started with what I’d thought was a decent-enough strategy, only to realize that I’d, yet again, shot myself in the foot.
That still left us with the issue of who was going to do the show.
Talk about a contentious issue! I didn’t know how we (Mona Lassie and I) were going to even introduce the question. Could we just wait until we were all lounging around the pool tomorrow, maybe after a really filling lunch, and then casually throw out something like, “Gee, wouldn’t it be fun, maybe, if we were ever to get back to really doing cooking shows again. Like in the good old days, when the guys at the Network weren’t so mad at us and we each had our own shows? Remember those days?”
And then, invariably, somebody would start growsing about how “we were never appreciated anyway.” And how “all they wanted to mae money off of us.”
And then I’d have to point out, in fairness, that our numerous fans must be longing for the days when we would return to the airwaves. They must really miss being able to tune in and see their favorite chefs showing off their skills, telling a few jokes, sharing some new recipes with them all.
To which my guys, with incomparable false modesty, would have to nod their heads and agree: Our fans must be missing all of that. Sorely missing all of that.
Which would then lead to ever louder griping. About how the idiots at Corporate didn’t get it. Didn’t understand how important it was—to our innumerable fans—that my guys’ shows should be allowed to continue…. With bigger budgets. And better sets. And, while we were at it, better wardrobe. Maybe more on-location shoots. Exotic locales.
You know: Terry could take his Tex-Mex for everyone show, “Turning the Tables… on Boring Food!” to Acapulco, maybe. Why not? That’d be absolutely great for the ratings.
He reminded everybody about how well-received his triumphant-return-to-his-roots-in-San-Antonio weeks’ worth of shows had been. Well, a bit of a travelogue would do even better. Couldn’t we all flat-out envision him cliff-diving down in Acapulco? Doing his famous Two-Toned Terrier Swan Dive?
And then, of course, as soon as Terry really started getting revved up about this idea, Suzie decided that she could really use a return-trip show of her own to her grandmother’s house in Guangzhou. Everybody knew that her whole “ouevre” was travel-based. From the very beginning--
At which point Butch interrupted and started growsing about he never seemed to go anywhere--
Which everybody else seemed to think was total nonsense. Hadn’t he just gotten back from that trip to Chattanooga?
And so the squabbling grew louder and louder, with nobody letting anyone else get a word in edgewise, and I found myself wondering whether maybe Mona Lassie and I should’ve tried another approach.
This, friends, was our life on the road. As so often happened, I started with what I’d thought was a decent-enough strategy, only to realize that I’d, yet again, shot myself in the foot.
May 18, 2020
That conversation never actually happened, of course. It was all in my head. But that was pretty much how the conversation would’ve gone, if I’d been dumb enough to start it in the first place.
But Mona Lassie and Deputy Rick’s idea—of having a cooking demonstration at the shopping mall TV live remote on Saturday, so we could introduce the 4 little sheepdog puppies and offer them up for adoption (to appropriate, responsible families)—was a good one. We just had to invent a better way of having it and not causing an even bigger problem (i.e., getting each of my guys selfishly wanting to “hog” the limelight during the cooking demo) in the process.
So…
We had to come up with SOMETHING. Saturday was a short 2 days away. And we’d have to go the grocery to buy all the food, which might take half a day in itself. (Where we were gonna get the money to pay for all the food, was another question. Maybe Allison’s TV station would foot the bill.) And we’d probably have to find another grocery store, too, because the one we’d stormed through earlier that day almost certainly wouldn’t want us back. As in: anywhere within 4 or 5 miles.
So…
As always, we needed a plan. One that would get the job done without hurting anyone’s feelings or starting a fight.
Ideally, we’d have one of our guys do a cooking demonstration all by him or herself. With maybe one other dog helping out. (That’d speed things up.) I’m sure the TV people wouldn’t want to shoot the whole demo non-stop. They’d probably want to do cutaways, then come back to the demo when the next “step” was ready to be presented.
Other questions: Were we going to have a real oven on hand? Just a stovetop? I mean, think of the logistics: We’d be in the parking lot of a shopping mall. How would we run a 220V line out there? Maybe a generator? But that would be noisy.
Then there were other considerations:
I didn’t think we’d have time to find a slow-cooker for Butch on such short notice. I didn’t think Fifi doing French pastry on a hot shopping-mall parking lot made sense. Also, Maggie’s “Leftovers” specialty wouldn’t work, since we didn’t have any leftovers. And clearly—clearly—we couldn’t have Howie hawking his “you only live twice” junk food/super-dangerous offerings to a crowd full of children. (At least while their moms were hovering over them.)
But I couldn’t say any of that out loud.
Maybe I should suggest something less “fractious.”
I know: How about a demonstration of remarkable feats of strength?
That conversation never actually happened, of course. It was all in my head. But that was pretty much how the conversation would’ve gone, if I’d been dumb enough to start it in the first place.
But Mona Lassie and Deputy Rick’s idea—of having a cooking demonstration at the shopping mall TV live remote on Saturday, so we could introduce the 4 little sheepdog puppies and offer them up for adoption (to appropriate, responsible families)—was a good one. We just had to invent a better way of having it and not causing an even bigger problem (i.e., getting each of my guys selfishly wanting to “hog” the limelight during the cooking demo) in the process.
So…
We had to come up with SOMETHING. Saturday was a short 2 days away. And we’d have to go the grocery to buy all the food, which might take half a day in itself. (Where we were gonna get the money to pay for all the food, was another question. Maybe Allison’s TV station would foot the bill.) And we’d probably have to find another grocery store, too, because the one we’d stormed through earlier that day almost certainly wouldn’t want us back. As in: anywhere within 4 or 5 miles.
So…
As always, we needed a plan. One that would get the job done without hurting anyone’s feelings or starting a fight.
Ideally, we’d have one of our guys do a cooking demonstration all by him or herself. With maybe one other dog helping out. (That’d speed things up.) I’m sure the TV people wouldn’t want to shoot the whole demo non-stop. They’d probably want to do cutaways, then come back to the demo when the next “step” was ready to be presented.
Other questions: Were we going to have a real oven on hand? Just a stovetop? I mean, think of the logistics: We’d be in the parking lot of a shopping mall. How would we run a 220V line out there? Maybe a generator? But that would be noisy.
Then there were other considerations:
I didn’t think we’d have time to find a slow-cooker for Butch on such short notice. I didn’t think Fifi doing French pastry on a hot shopping-mall parking lot made sense. Also, Maggie’s “Leftovers” specialty wouldn’t work, since we didn’t have any leftovers. And clearly—clearly—we couldn’t have Howie hawking his “you only live twice” junk food/super-dangerous offerings to a crowd full of children. (At least while their moms were hovering over them.)
But I couldn’t say any of that out loud.
Maybe I should suggest something less “fractious.”
I know: How about a demonstration of remarkable feats of strength?
May 19, 2020
So if we can’t do (or don’t want to do) pastry, barbeque, leftovers, or risky-for-dogs food, for the shopping mall cooking demonstration, that leaves us with 4 options: Mona Lassie’s Italian, Terry’s Tex-Mex, Suzie’s Chinese, and Barnacle Bill’s seafood. Any of those, I’d think, would be do-able. So how to choose?
Well, for starters, I’m assuming that Mona Lassie will be busy enough taking care of the 4 sheepdog puppies. I mean, the whole idea behind this cooking demo is to get the little ones adopted. By somebody(s) responsible and loving, of course—but, bottom line, getting them off of our paws. So that should rule out Mona Lassie as the cooking demo person.
Next, I’m not sure how Tex-Mex would go down in Tidewater, Virginia. Ideally, I guess, we’d do Butch & barbeque for this sort of venue, but as I said earlier, I don’t know how we’d get our paws on a big (or oversized) cooker (or three) on such short notice. Like tomorrow morning.
And I’m not sure that Barnacle Bill & fish would be a great draw, given how many children usually show up at these types of events. You know: running around a shopping mall parking lot, wanting junk food and rides and games with prizes. Not exactly the type to want to sample flounder and trout. (And shrimp, lobster, and crab would be a complete waste of this crowd.)
I know Bill would argue (he likes to argue anyway, about anything) that fish tacos did not, in actual fact, originate in San Diego, but rather Charleston, South Carolina, which is just down the road (sort of). Of course, that would be his argument today. On another day, he’d claim fish tacos came from Bristol, England… or maybe from Spain. Who knows?
Anyway, I can’t see all these little kids running around and their moms chasing after them, and trying to feed them fish. Any kind of fish. Even fish and chips. (And admittedly, Bill’s got a great fish-and-chips recipe in his book “Seafood for Schnauzers,” but there’s a time and a place, and this isn’t either. In my opinion. And I’m the guy who’s gotta pull this off.)
Which leaves … for better or for worse… Suzie’s Chinese!
Well, why not? Let’s think positively.
For one thing, Suzie likes to brag (and it’s true!) that she can make basically anyone “a one-wok wonder.” Well, here’s her chance to makes some new converts.
We’ll have limited stage space and probably not much in the way of ovens, broilers, cooktops, so maybe a few woks atop a few coleman stoves will be the best we can do, anyway. Which means we won’t be doing anything elaborate, no matter which cuisine we might choose. (So no Beef Wellington. No Lobster Thermidor. Definitely no Peking Duck.)
Plus, for a parking-lot demonstration, you want to present something… easy. That’d have to be the by-word. Easy breezy. (Hopefully there’ll be a breeze. We’re gonna be standing on a parking lot in Virginia, after all. It might be totally toasty by 10 in the morning. Maybe we should just do a free watermelon giveaway and leave it at that… Maybe even free water balloons… Yeah, the moms would really appreciate that.)
So, “easy” is the word. Which means Suzie can do…
EGG ROLLS FOR EVERYONE!
So if we can’t do (or don’t want to do) pastry, barbeque, leftovers, or risky-for-dogs food, for the shopping mall cooking demonstration, that leaves us with 4 options: Mona Lassie’s Italian, Terry’s Tex-Mex, Suzie’s Chinese, and Barnacle Bill’s seafood. Any of those, I’d think, would be do-able. So how to choose?
Well, for starters, I’m assuming that Mona Lassie will be busy enough taking care of the 4 sheepdog puppies. I mean, the whole idea behind this cooking demo is to get the little ones adopted. By somebody(s) responsible and loving, of course—but, bottom line, getting them off of our paws. So that should rule out Mona Lassie as the cooking demo person.
Next, I’m not sure how Tex-Mex would go down in Tidewater, Virginia. Ideally, I guess, we’d do Butch & barbeque for this sort of venue, but as I said earlier, I don’t know how we’d get our paws on a big (or oversized) cooker (or three) on such short notice. Like tomorrow morning.
And I’m not sure that Barnacle Bill & fish would be a great draw, given how many children usually show up at these types of events. You know: running around a shopping mall parking lot, wanting junk food and rides and games with prizes. Not exactly the type to want to sample flounder and trout. (And shrimp, lobster, and crab would be a complete waste of this crowd.)
I know Bill would argue (he likes to argue anyway, about anything) that fish tacos did not, in actual fact, originate in San Diego, but rather Charleston, South Carolina, which is just down the road (sort of). Of course, that would be his argument today. On another day, he’d claim fish tacos came from Bristol, England… or maybe from Spain. Who knows?
Anyway, I can’t see all these little kids running around and their moms chasing after them, and trying to feed them fish. Any kind of fish. Even fish and chips. (And admittedly, Bill’s got a great fish-and-chips recipe in his book “Seafood for Schnauzers,” but there’s a time and a place, and this isn’t either. In my opinion. And I’m the guy who’s gotta pull this off.)
Which leaves … for better or for worse… Suzie’s Chinese!
Well, why not? Let’s think positively.
For one thing, Suzie likes to brag (and it’s true!) that she can make basically anyone “a one-wok wonder.” Well, here’s her chance to makes some new converts.
We’ll have limited stage space and probably not much in the way of ovens, broilers, cooktops, so maybe a few woks atop a few coleman stoves will be the best we can do, anyway. Which means we won’t be doing anything elaborate, no matter which cuisine we might choose. (So no Beef Wellington. No Lobster Thermidor. Definitely no Peking Duck.)
Plus, for a parking-lot demonstration, you want to present something… easy. That’d have to be the by-word. Easy breezy. (Hopefully there’ll be a breeze. We’re gonna be standing on a parking lot in Virginia, after all. It might be totally toasty by 10 in the morning. Maybe we should just do a free watermelon giveaway and leave it at that… Maybe even free water balloons… Yeah, the moms would really appreciate that.)
So, “easy” is the word. Which means Suzie can do…
EGG ROLLS FOR EVERYONE!
May 20, 2020
And so, as a public service (and so you get an idea how this is gonna play out), I’m going to reproduce Suzie’s great Egg Roll recipe from her cookbook “Kung Pao for Pekingese.”
I know that a lot of you already have her book, so in a way I’m preaching to the choir. (I’m sure a few of you even have signed first editions. But those sold out pretty fast, so most of you probably just have one of the later editions. Whatever. They’re really all the same.)
(Actually, if you have one of the earlier editions, your copy is probably so dog-eared and wrinkled and stained—from using it over and over again—that you might not be able to read it anymore anyway, so even there we’re doing you a public service.)
Anyway, you’re really going to love this. Suzie calls it “Logs Gliding Down River Of Happiness.” Spring Rolls with Dipping Sauces.
You might want to turn on your printer. Go ahead. We don’t mind. Forget all those copyright laws. Just print it straight off. Here goes:
Logs Gliding Down River of Happiness
Spring Rolls with Dipping Sauces
So we begin with an easy appetizer I learned from my Ah Paw (my grandmother). It’s from the Sun Tak region in the south, where she was born. Be sparing when smearing egg onto the wrappers.
1 scoop shrimp - shelled, deveined, julienned
1 scoop lean boneless pork, shredded
1 scoop liver (or lamb) dog chow, chopped
1 bowl peanut oil
1 can mung bean sprouts, ends removed
1 large egg, beaten
salt, sugar, soy sauce
12 spring roll wrappers
Place shrimp and pork in separate bowls. For the shrimp, add a swipe of salt, a swipe of sugar, and a splash of soy sauce. For the pork, use 2 swipes of salt, 2 splashes of soy sauce, and no sugar. Mix well. Take a short nap.
Heat wok to REALLY HOT.
Pour some peanut oil into the wok, wait for it to smoke. Then dump the shrimp mix in and stir a few times. Use chopsticks with two paws or a good flat stick. Don’t let the wok tip over!
Add shrimp mix and stir. Add dog chow and stir some more.
Add bean sprouts and cook til sprouts start to wilt or you get tired. Remove from heat, pour into a strainer, and drain.
On a cookie sheet, place the 12 spring roll wrappers. Using a flat stick or your paw, place equal amounts of filling on each wrapper. Don’t eat any of the filling!
Beat egg in a small bowl. Then, carefully dip a paw into the beaten egg and paint the edges of the first wrapper with it. (It’ll be sticky, like paste.) With both paws, roll and fold wrapper until it’s sealed and looks like a small smooth log (or store-bought bone). Repeat with the other 11 wrappers.
Wash paws.
Pour the rest of the peanut oil in the wok. Put 4 spring rolls into the wok and fry, turning until they’re golden brown. (Maybe 1 tummy-rub.) Remove and drain on paper towel. Repeat with the 8 remaining spring rolls. (I know you’re hungry, but you’ll have to wait!)
Now we can make 2 real easy, tasty dipping sauces!
Mustard-Soy Sauce
1/2 scoop soy sauce
2 spoons honey
1 spoon rice vinegar
1/2 spoon chili sauce (without garlic!)
Sweet-and-Sour Sauce
1/2 scoop ketchup
2 spoons sugar
1 spoon rice vinegar, fresh lime juice
a splash soy sauce, Worcestershire sauce
Mix both of these recipes well with a clean bone. Serve with tea or beer (or both) and enjoy! Reminisce with your new friends about summers in the country in Guangzhou (or the Berkshires)! Maybe they’ll share a story about their Ah Paw!
And so, as a public service (and so you get an idea how this is gonna play out), I’m going to reproduce Suzie’s great Egg Roll recipe from her cookbook “Kung Pao for Pekingese.”
I know that a lot of you already have her book, so in a way I’m preaching to the choir. (I’m sure a few of you even have signed first editions. But those sold out pretty fast, so most of you probably just have one of the later editions. Whatever. They’re really all the same.)
(Actually, if you have one of the earlier editions, your copy is probably so dog-eared and wrinkled and stained—from using it over and over again—that you might not be able to read it anymore anyway, so even there we’re doing you a public service.)
Anyway, you’re really going to love this. Suzie calls it “Logs Gliding Down River Of Happiness.” Spring Rolls with Dipping Sauces.
You might want to turn on your printer. Go ahead. We don’t mind. Forget all those copyright laws. Just print it straight off. Here goes:
Logs Gliding Down River of Happiness
Spring Rolls with Dipping Sauces
So we begin with an easy appetizer I learned from my Ah Paw (my grandmother). It’s from the Sun Tak region in the south, where she was born. Be sparing when smearing egg onto the wrappers.
1 scoop shrimp - shelled, deveined, julienned
1 scoop lean boneless pork, shredded
1 scoop liver (or lamb) dog chow, chopped
1 bowl peanut oil
1 can mung bean sprouts, ends removed
1 large egg, beaten
salt, sugar, soy sauce
12 spring roll wrappers
Place shrimp and pork in separate bowls. For the shrimp, add a swipe of salt, a swipe of sugar, and a splash of soy sauce. For the pork, use 2 swipes of salt, 2 splashes of soy sauce, and no sugar. Mix well. Take a short nap.
Heat wok to REALLY HOT.
Pour some peanut oil into the wok, wait for it to smoke. Then dump the shrimp mix in and stir a few times. Use chopsticks with two paws or a good flat stick. Don’t let the wok tip over!
Add shrimp mix and stir. Add dog chow and stir some more.
Add bean sprouts and cook til sprouts start to wilt or you get tired. Remove from heat, pour into a strainer, and drain.
On a cookie sheet, place the 12 spring roll wrappers. Using a flat stick or your paw, place equal amounts of filling on each wrapper. Don’t eat any of the filling!
Beat egg in a small bowl. Then, carefully dip a paw into the beaten egg and paint the edges of the first wrapper with it. (It’ll be sticky, like paste.) With both paws, roll and fold wrapper until it’s sealed and looks like a small smooth log (or store-bought bone). Repeat with the other 11 wrappers.
Wash paws.
Pour the rest of the peanut oil in the wok. Put 4 spring rolls into the wok and fry, turning until they’re golden brown. (Maybe 1 tummy-rub.) Remove and drain on paper towel. Repeat with the 8 remaining spring rolls. (I know you’re hungry, but you’ll have to wait!)
Now we can make 2 real easy, tasty dipping sauces!
Mustard-Soy Sauce
1/2 scoop soy sauce
2 spoons honey
1 spoon rice vinegar
1/2 spoon chili sauce (without garlic!)
Sweet-and-Sour Sauce
1/2 scoop ketchup
2 spoons sugar
1 spoon rice vinegar, fresh lime juice
a splash soy sauce, Worcestershire sauce
Mix both of these recipes well with a clean bone. Serve with tea or beer (or both) and enjoy! Reminisce with your new friends about summers in the country in Guangzhou (or the Berkshires)! Maybe they’ll share a story about their Ah Paw!
May 21, 2020
Pretty cool, huh? A totally free recipe, just for reading along here. (But maybe that was just a tease, you know? As they say in the ad biz. Just to get you interested enough to actually BUY THE BOOK! What do you think?)
So…
I have to confess. Reproducing that spring roll photo brings back memories.
Nobody came right out and said anything, but I always considered the food photos to be the lamest part of the cookbooks. I mean, the recipes were top-notch. No one would argue with that. (Well, maybe Barnacle Bill would. He argues about anything.)
And the cover art? That was over-the-top terrific. Lisa H. did wonderful work for us on all of the covers.
And we let the guys write their own bios, so nobody ever quibbled about them.
But I was the guy responsible for the food photos. (I mean, we certainly weren’t gonna hire an actual professional food photographer. Those guys are total prima donnas, and they cost a fortune… Plus, they take all day just to do one set-up. If that.) (And we couldn’t use anybody from the Network, cuz they’re all union and they’ve got all these rules. Plus, knowing them, they’d probably eat all the stuff before they even finished the shoot.)
So I wound up doing all the photography, and I don’t think my pictures really did justice to how good all these dishes were. Are. Can be. As in: if you bought the book and did them yourself.
Or maybe I’m just fishing for compliments. Maybe I just want lots of folks to write in and say: “No, we think the food photos are the best part! We think they’re great!”
Well, I’ve never, ever, heard anyone say that. (And I’m sure they don’t say that just to keep me from getting embarrassed.) At best, people might say, “They’re okay. I like the plates you used.” Or “I like the table cloths you used.” (Or: “Well, they’re in color.”) Or something like that.
So obviously I’m not tooting my own horn, here. I just thought I should point that out.
Most folks love the recipes, and they like to read the guys’ biographies, and they like to hear everything “straight from the horse’s mouth” (as they say). And I really got a kick out of working with Lisa to produce the covers (from and back). So if the food photos are the “weak link,” so be it. I can live with that. And the books themselves are good enough—by a lot—to stand on their own, even if they didn’t have photos. (Which would certainly be unique, for cookbooks.)
Speaking of back covers: You never see pictures of the back covers in all the advertising. So here’s a reproduction of the front and back covers of Suzie’s book. Just for your edification.
Pretty cool, huh? A totally free recipe, just for reading along here. (But maybe that was just a tease, you know? As they say in the ad biz. Just to get you interested enough to actually BUY THE BOOK! What do you think?)
So…
I have to confess. Reproducing that spring roll photo brings back memories.
Nobody came right out and said anything, but I always considered the food photos to be the lamest part of the cookbooks. I mean, the recipes were top-notch. No one would argue with that. (Well, maybe Barnacle Bill would. He argues about anything.)
And the cover art? That was over-the-top terrific. Lisa H. did wonderful work for us on all of the covers.
And we let the guys write their own bios, so nobody ever quibbled about them.
But I was the guy responsible for the food photos. (I mean, we certainly weren’t gonna hire an actual professional food photographer. Those guys are total prima donnas, and they cost a fortune… Plus, they take all day just to do one set-up. If that.) (And we couldn’t use anybody from the Network, cuz they’re all union and they’ve got all these rules. Plus, knowing them, they’d probably eat all the stuff before they even finished the shoot.)
So I wound up doing all the photography, and I don’t think my pictures really did justice to how good all these dishes were. Are. Can be. As in: if you bought the book and did them yourself.
Or maybe I’m just fishing for compliments. Maybe I just want lots of folks to write in and say: “No, we think the food photos are the best part! We think they’re great!”
Well, I’ve never, ever, heard anyone say that. (And I’m sure they don’t say that just to keep me from getting embarrassed.) At best, people might say, “They’re okay. I like the plates you used.” Or “I like the table cloths you used.” (Or: “Well, they’re in color.”) Or something like that.
So obviously I’m not tooting my own horn, here. I just thought I should point that out.
Most folks love the recipes, and they like to read the guys’ biographies, and they like to hear everything “straight from the horse’s mouth” (as they say). And I really got a kick out of working with Lisa to produce the covers (from and back). So if the food photos are the “weak link,” so be it. I can live with that. And the books themselves are good enough—by a lot—to stand on their own, even if they didn’t have photos. (Which would certainly be unique, for cookbooks.)
Speaking of back covers: You never see pictures of the back covers in all the advertising. So here’s a reproduction of the front and back covers of Suzie’s book. Just for your edification.
May 22, 2020
While I’m discussing photo shoots, here’s a digression:
When I was doing the photographs for Suzie’s book, I realized that we needed an “end” photo. (Every book has an “end” photo. Some variation of a on treat and a leash on a dessert plate. As in: “Okay! That was a great meal! Now it’s time to maybe a long walk, before we settle down for a nap.”)
Suzie had made the most scrumptious dishes, from the recipes included in the book, and I’d photographed each of them, in turn. And after each one, we got to eat them, which was pure joy (of course).
But now that they were all done, we still had the “end” photo to shoot. And it seemed logical that, for the “treat,” we’d use a couple of fortune cookies. And it was only then, when we’d all but finished the shoot, that I realized that we didn’t have any fortune cookies on hand.
And it’s not like I’d ever expected Suzie to make some. That’s the point. No matter where you go, to a noodle shop in Hong Kong, a fancy sit-down Chinese restaurant in Chinatown in San Francisco, or a chop suey joint in a strip mall in Anywhere, USA, you always expect to get fortune cookies… but you never expect that they would actually make them… right there. Fortune cookies, for as long as anybody can remember, come from a factory. Somewhere.
When I was wanting to finish the “end” photo (and they were real easy to do, comparably), only then did I realize that we didn’t have any fortune cookies on hand. (Or on paw.) So I had to throw my backpack over my shoulders, get on my bike, and pedal over to my neighborhood Chinese food emporium. Where the kindly owner and his wife offered me up a huge box of fortune cookies and invited me to grab as many as I felt like I’d need.
I’d never thought of it before: Nobody makes fortune cookies. They all come from “the factory.” In huge boxes.
I wonder if in ancient times, during the famous ancient dynasties of China, whether mass-production first began in fortune-cookie factories. Everything else, maybe, was still made by hand, but fortune cookies (and maybe fireworks) even then came from “the factory.”
Something to think about.
Here’s a copy of the “end” photo from Suzie’s book, to show you what I’ve been talking about.
While I’m discussing photo shoots, here’s a digression:
When I was doing the photographs for Suzie’s book, I realized that we needed an “end” photo. (Every book has an “end” photo. Some variation of a on treat and a leash on a dessert plate. As in: “Okay! That was a great meal! Now it’s time to maybe a long walk, before we settle down for a nap.”)
Suzie had made the most scrumptious dishes, from the recipes included in the book, and I’d photographed each of them, in turn. And after each one, we got to eat them, which was pure joy (of course).
But now that they were all done, we still had the “end” photo to shoot. And it seemed logical that, for the “treat,” we’d use a couple of fortune cookies. And it was only then, when we’d all but finished the shoot, that I realized that we didn’t have any fortune cookies on hand.
And it’s not like I’d ever expected Suzie to make some. That’s the point. No matter where you go, to a noodle shop in Hong Kong, a fancy sit-down Chinese restaurant in Chinatown in San Francisco, or a chop suey joint in a strip mall in Anywhere, USA, you always expect to get fortune cookies… but you never expect that they would actually make them… right there. Fortune cookies, for as long as anybody can remember, come from a factory. Somewhere.
When I was wanting to finish the “end” photo (and they were real easy to do, comparably), only then did I realize that we didn’t have any fortune cookies on hand. (Or on paw.) So I had to throw my backpack over my shoulders, get on my bike, and pedal over to my neighborhood Chinese food emporium. Where the kindly owner and his wife offered me up a huge box of fortune cookies and invited me to grab as many as I felt like I’d need.
I’d never thought of it before: Nobody makes fortune cookies. They all come from “the factory.” In huge boxes.
I wonder if in ancient times, during the famous ancient dynasties of China, whether mass-production first began in fortune-cookie factories. Everything else, maybe, was still made by hand, but fortune cookies (and maybe fireworks) even then came from “the factory.”
Something to think about.
Here’s a copy of the “end” photo from Suzie’s book, to show you what I’ve been talking about.
May 25, 2020
So that might be a new career path for me, if I ever get fired from this job (or heaven forbid, decide to quit). I could go to work on a doctoral thesis on the beginnings of fortune-cookie factories in ancient China. Obviously I’d have to learn Chinese first, so this project might take a while. No immediate results, unlike, say, all those diet pills you see advertised on TV.
After having put in a very cursory amount of thought on this matter, I think I might have a unique angle to approach it with.
You see, I’m wondering whether it wasn’t the difficulty of forming and baking the cookies that caused people to abandon the idea of making fortune cookies in their own kitchens (and that’s assuming that their own kitchens contained an oven to bake things in. I know that in the Middle Ages in Europe, baking ovens were communal property, sort of, and they were kept in “buildings” separated from dwellings, if for no other reason than to minimize the possibility of burning down the whole town. If you were really interested in that aspect of early baking, you could consult Fernand Braudel’s “The Structures of Everyday Life (15th-18th centuries).” Totally cool book. Here’s an Amazon link: https://www.amazon.com/Structures-Everyday-Life-Civilization-Capitalism/dp/0060148454/ref=sr_1_6?dchild=1&keywords=fernand+braudel&qid=1589987374&s=books&sr=1-6
Anyway, my insight is that maybe it wasn’t the difficulty in baking the darn cookies. Even if Suzie couldn’t show you how to make them, I’m sure Fifi could crank out as many as you liked in a snap. (I mean, if she can do madeleines and croissants, simple flour-and-water cookies would be super-easy.
I think the hard part—seriously—would be dreaming up all the pithy bits of wisdom that you’d have to put on the “fortune” slips of paper inside. Plus, you’d have to figure out a way to print the “fortune” on the little piece of paper with some kind of ink that wouldn’t run and discolor the whole cookie during the baking process.
(Or maybe there’s a way that they actually slide the piece of paper inside the curled-up cookie after it’s done baking. Kind of like building a ship in a bottle… Kind of.)
So my angle would be: Fortune cookies are made in factories instead of people’s kitchens mainly because most of us aren’t smart enough to invent enough wise sayings to put inside them, to keep them seeming novel and fresh. (I mean: the ideas novel and fresh.)
So it’s not the cookie. It’s the message.
So that might be a new career path for me, if I ever get fired from this job (or heaven forbid, decide to quit). I could go to work on a doctoral thesis on the beginnings of fortune-cookie factories in ancient China. Obviously I’d have to learn Chinese first, so this project might take a while. No immediate results, unlike, say, all those diet pills you see advertised on TV.
After having put in a very cursory amount of thought on this matter, I think I might have a unique angle to approach it with.
You see, I’m wondering whether it wasn’t the difficulty of forming and baking the cookies that caused people to abandon the idea of making fortune cookies in their own kitchens (and that’s assuming that their own kitchens contained an oven to bake things in. I know that in the Middle Ages in Europe, baking ovens were communal property, sort of, and they were kept in “buildings” separated from dwellings, if for no other reason than to minimize the possibility of burning down the whole town. If you were really interested in that aspect of early baking, you could consult Fernand Braudel’s “The Structures of Everyday Life (15th-18th centuries).” Totally cool book. Here’s an Amazon link: https://www.amazon.com/Structures-Everyday-Life-Civilization-Capitalism/dp/0060148454/ref=sr_1_6?dchild=1&keywords=fernand+braudel&qid=1589987374&s=books&sr=1-6
Anyway, my insight is that maybe it wasn’t the difficulty in baking the darn cookies. Even if Suzie couldn’t show you how to make them, I’m sure Fifi could crank out as many as you liked in a snap. (I mean, if she can do madeleines and croissants, simple flour-and-water cookies would be super-easy.
I think the hard part—seriously—would be dreaming up all the pithy bits of wisdom that you’d have to put on the “fortune” slips of paper inside. Plus, you’d have to figure out a way to print the “fortune” on the little piece of paper with some kind of ink that wouldn’t run and discolor the whole cookie during the baking process.
(Or maybe there’s a way that they actually slide the piece of paper inside the curled-up cookie after it’s done baking. Kind of like building a ship in a bottle… Kind of.)
So my angle would be: Fortune cookies are made in factories instead of people’s kitchens mainly because most of us aren’t smart enough to invent enough wise sayings to put inside them, to keep them seeming novel and fresh. (I mean: the ideas novel and fresh.)
So it’s not the cookie. It’s the message.
May 26, 2020
So the next bit of “business” was going to be rigging the election over who got to do the cooking demonstration in 2 days’ time.
Having already ruled out Fifi’s French pastry as too high-falutin’ for a shopping-mall parking lot, Butch’s barbeque as requiring too much equipment, leftovers with Maggie because we didn’t have any leftovers (unless we held another Loaves & Fishes Miracle Event the day before), and definitely Howie’s mélange of dangerous foods (for anyone, much less kids), that left us with 4 possible candidates:
Mona Lassie and Lasagne for the Masses. Terry’s often-fiery Tex-Mex. Barnacle Bill’s (probably) Fish & Chips (unless he wanted to drag us all out onto a boat and do some actual deep-sea fishing and then put on a for-real clambake, which would be totally wasted on a shopping-mall crowd), and Suzie’s Oh-So-Simple Egg Rolls (or even, maybe, for this crowd, Sichuan Chicken Nuggets).
In my mind, I’d already eliminated everyone but Suzie. She’d be suitably exotic for these folks, and we could get the job done and get out of there—mission accomplished—without too much fanfare… and definitely without anything left over. That’s one great thing about Suzie’s cooking: There’s almost never anything left over.
So the only problem was rigging the voting.
But wait. Who said anything about voting? This wasn’t a democracy. (Was it?)
This whole idea had been “cooked up” by Mona Lassie and Deputy Rick. Mona Lassie hadn’t said anything to me about “voting.” They just wanted to stage an event so that they could introduce the 4 adorable sheepdog puppies to an adoring public, and get them adopted. Preferably by 4 loving and responsible familes… Yes, definitely preferably.
To legitimate the “event,” we had to do a cooking demonstration. Understood. But that didn’t mean we had to vote on who was gonna do it. After all, I was the Manager. Why shouldn’t I just be the guy who chose who the lucky chef was gonna be?
I am the Manager. Not that I get to drive the bus very often, but that’s because I usually let somebody else have the pleasure of wrestling the bus around. I’m simply being magnanimous. That’s part of being Manager, isn’t it? “Delegating.” Well, that’s what I was going to do, in this case: Delegate.
Let Suzie show her stuff. The people would love her egg rolls, and the rest of us could “work the crowd.” Get these puppies off of my hands.
Now I just had to figure out how to pull this off, without hurting anyone’s feelings or starting a big pissing contest.
So the next bit of “business” was going to be rigging the election over who got to do the cooking demonstration in 2 days’ time.
Having already ruled out Fifi’s French pastry as too high-falutin’ for a shopping-mall parking lot, Butch’s barbeque as requiring too much equipment, leftovers with Maggie because we didn’t have any leftovers (unless we held another Loaves & Fishes Miracle Event the day before), and definitely Howie’s mélange of dangerous foods (for anyone, much less kids), that left us with 4 possible candidates:
Mona Lassie and Lasagne for the Masses. Terry’s often-fiery Tex-Mex. Barnacle Bill’s (probably) Fish & Chips (unless he wanted to drag us all out onto a boat and do some actual deep-sea fishing and then put on a for-real clambake, which would be totally wasted on a shopping-mall crowd), and Suzie’s Oh-So-Simple Egg Rolls (or even, maybe, for this crowd, Sichuan Chicken Nuggets).
In my mind, I’d already eliminated everyone but Suzie. She’d be suitably exotic for these folks, and we could get the job done and get out of there—mission accomplished—without too much fanfare… and definitely without anything left over. That’s one great thing about Suzie’s cooking: There’s almost never anything left over.
So the only problem was rigging the voting.
But wait. Who said anything about voting? This wasn’t a democracy. (Was it?)
This whole idea had been “cooked up” by Mona Lassie and Deputy Rick. Mona Lassie hadn’t said anything to me about “voting.” They just wanted to stage an event so that they could introduce the 4 adorable sheepdog puppies to an adoring public, and get them adopted. Preferably by 4 loving and responsible familes… Yes, definitely preferably.
To legitimate the “event,” we had to do a cooking demonstration. Understood. But that didn’t mean we had to vote on who was gonna do it. After all, I was the Manager. Why shouldn’t I just be the guy who chose who the lucky chef was gonna be?
I am the Manager. Not that I get to drive the bus very often, but that’s because I usually let somebody else have the pleasure of wrestling the bus around. I’m simply being magnanimous. That’s part of being Manager, isn’t it? “Delegating.” Well, that’s what I was going to do, in this case: Delegate.
Let Suzie show her stuff. The people would love her egg rolls, and the rest of us could “work the crowd.” Get these puppies off of my hands.
Now I just had to figure out how to pull this off, without hurting anyone’s feelings or starting a big pissing contest.
May 27, 2020
Of course it’s never that easy. No matter how devious I am, there’s always somebody who throws a wrench into the whole operation. Only I hadn’t expected it (this time, at least) to be Butch.
Unbeknownst to me, Mona Lassie had told everybody else about her brilliant idea. (The idea being: Doing a big cooking demonstration at this shopping-mall parking lot event in Richmond, with a live-remote TV tie-in, during which we would casually introduce the 4 abandoned sheepdog puppies and find folks to adopt them.)
So by the time I got a chance to try to “frame” our plan to the gang, they all had had plenty of time to envision themselves (each of them) hogging the limelight on the cooking stage. Getting all that free TV exposure, probably selling a bunch of books (in their dreams. Not with a shopping-mall parking lot crowd.)
Which meant that any chance I’d had of deftly “nominating” Suzie for the gig—solo—was out the window before I’d even opened my mouth.
And the biggest obstacle turned out to be Butch. He was so excited about this new recipe he’d discovered. “Catalina Island Roast Wild Boar, Hawaiian Style.”
I don’t know where he got it. It didn’t matter. By the time he explained his “big idea” to me, it was a done deal (in his mind). Everyone else was simply gonna have to step aside. This idea was too good to pass up! (Quoth Master Chef Butch Waddles.)
When I tried to argue with him about the logistics he’d need to pull this off (much less where he was going to find a wild boar in Richmond, Virginia, and how one wild boar was going to feed the hundreds of spectators we’d be expecting), he told me that Barnacle Bill knew a guy (who knew a guy) with a backhoe, and they could dig a pit right there in the parking lot (ripping up the concrete, I assumed) and get a good-sized fire going by tomorrow, and then he’d get it to settle down enough to lay that boar (properly dressed) down inside it tomorrow night, and let it slow-cook underneath all the palm fronds or whatever all night long, and come the next morning, it’d be sooo tender and juicy and falling-off-the-bone and dripping with his absolutely sinful marinade mixed with pork fat…
I told him that he’d never get a permit to destroy 200 square feet of concrete for a one-off cooking demo, and I even had to call in Deputy Rick to back me up. (Like Deputy Rick might arrest him, if the backhoe even showed up on-location.) I also told him that the TV station might bail out on the whole idea, if it found out he was planning to roast an endangered species.
To which he laughed and said that everybody knew wild boar wasn’t an endangered species (and it wasn’t going to be wild boar anyway. It was going to be an ordinary pig. Large, but still a pig.)
To which I countered by saying that nobody else would know that, and the TV station might even face an outraged consumer boycott—maybe a counter-demonstration with pickets and angry moms carrying signs—if someone happened to leak this idea to a rival news organization.
And Barnacle Bill piped up with, “And who would do a thing like that?”
And I just looked up to the sky and shrugged and said, “These things have a way of getting out.”
And so Bill, sensing an opportunity for himself, turned the tables on Butch and, pretending to be the conciliator, offered to do the cooking demo instead, and if Butch had thought that his “Hawaiian Style Wild Boar” sounded like a crowd-pleaser, everybody knew that Bill’s “Teriyaki Tuna” could be a can-do substitute.
And they wouldn’t have to use tuna. He said that he could work with whatever they found at the local fish market the morning of the event. Anything short of squid.
Well, he was persuasive. He almost had me going along with it. I mean, I’ve had his “Teriyaki Tuna” (with pineapple and toast) at least a dozen times, and each time it’s better than the last. It would definitely wow the crowd. (And the moms wouldn’t object that it wasn’t good for their kids… Unless there were bones in it, of course. Kids aren’t always so careful with fish with bones. Especially, I’d think, kids running around a shopping-mall parking lot.)
Here’s a picture of Bill’s “Teriyaki Tuna” presentation form his cookbook “Seafood for Schnauzers.” If you look closely, you’ll see one of the many nautical maps he’s had laminated for use as a place mat. It’s kinda cool, when you eat as his house in New Bedford and can check out all the different maps. Each of which, of course, comes with its own story.
Of course it’s never that easy. No matter how devious I am, there’s always somebody who throws a wrench into the whole operation. Only I hadn’t expected it (this time, at least) to be Butch.
Unbeknownst to me, Mona Lassie had told everybody else about her brilliant idea. (The idea being: Doing a big cooking demonstration at this shopping-mall parking lot event in Richmond, with a live-remote TV tie-in, during which we would casually introduce the 4 abandoned sheepdog puppies and find folks to adopt them.)
So by the time I got a chance to try to “frame” our plan to the gang, they all had had plenty of time to envision themselves (each of them) hogging the limelight on the cooking stage. Getting all that free TV exposure, probably selling a bunch of books (in their dreams. Not with a shopping-mall parking lot crowd.)
Which meant that any chance I’d had of deftly “nominating” Suzie for the gig—solo—was out the window before I’d even opened my mouth.
And the biggest obstacle turned out to be Butch. He was so excited about this new recipe he’d discovered. “Catalina Island Roast Wild Boar, Hawaiian Style.”
I don’t know where he got it. It didn’t matter. By the time he explained his “big idea” to me, it was a done deal (in his mind). Everyone else was simply gonna have to step aside. This idea was too good to pass up! (Quoth Master Chef Butch Waddles.)
When I tried to argue with him about the logistics he’d need to pull this off (much less where he was going to find a wild boar in Richmond, Virginia, and how one wild boar was going to feed the hundreds of spectators we’d be expecting), he told me that Barnacle Bill knew a guy (who knew a guy) with a backhoe, and they could dig a pit right there in the parking lot (ripping up the concrete, I assumed) and get a good-sized fire going by tomorrow, and then he’d get it to settle down enough to lay that boar (properly dressed) down inside it tomorrow night, and let it slow-cook underneath all the palm fronds or whatever all night long, and come the next morning, it’d be sooo tender and juicy and falling-off-the-bone and dripping with his absolutely sinful marinade mixed with pork fat…
I told him that he’d never get a permit to destroy 200 square feet of concrete for a one-off cooking demo, and I even had to call in Deputy Rick to back me up. (Like Deputy Rick might arrest him, if the backhoe even showed up on-location.) I also told him that the TV station might bail out on the whole idea, if it found out he was planning to roast an endangered species.
To which he laughed and said that everybody knew wild boar wasn’t an endangered species (and it wasn’t going to be wild boar anyway. It was going to be an ordinary pig. Large, but still a pig.)
To which I countered by saying that nobody else would know that, and the TV station might even face an outraged consumer boycott—maybe a counter-demonstration with pickets and angry moms carrying signs—if someone happened to leak this idea to a rival news organization.
And Barnacle Bill piped up with, “And who would do a thing like that?”
And I just looked up to the sky and shrugged and said, “These things have a way of getting out.”
And so Bill, sensing an opportunity for himself, turned the tables on Butch and, pretending to be the conciliator, offered to do the cooking demo instead, and if Butch had thought that his “Hawaiian Style Wild Boar” sounded like a crowd-pleaser, everybody knew that Bill’s “Teriyaki Tuna” could be a can-do substitute.
And they wouldn’t have to use tuna. He said that he could work with whatever they found at the local fish market the morning of the event. Anything short of squid.
Well, he was persuasive. He almost had me going along with it. I mean, I’ve had his “Teriyaki Tuna” (with pineapple and toast) at least a dozen times, and each time it’s better than the last. It would definitely wow the crowd. (And the moms wouldn’t object that it wasn’t good for their kids… Unless there were bones in it, of course. Kids aren’t always so careful with fish with bones. Especially, I’d think, kids running around a shopping-mall parking lot.)
Here’s a picture of Bill’s “Teriyaki Tuna” presentation form his cookbook “Seafood for Schnauzers.” If you look closely, you’ll see one of the many nautical maps he’s had laminated for use as a place mat. It’s kinda cool, when you eat as his house in New Bedford and can check out all the different maps. Each of which, of course, comes with its own story.
May 28, 2020
Fortunately, just as I was on the verge of (badly) losing the debate over who was gonna do the cooking demo, salvation arrived in the person of Deputy Rick’s wife Allison.
She’s one of those take-charge-without-anyone-asking. but she’s also one of those rare take-charge-and-keep-everybody-happy types. (She didn’t get to be station manager at her Richmond cable-TV station for nothing.)
She very quickly explained to Butch that digging up a shopping-mall parking lot for his wild boar cooking pit was not going to happen. For all sorts of very sensible reasons that somehow had eluded his imagination (and my powers of persuasion).
She also explained to Barnacle Bill that a cooking show featuring fish—even something as tempting and tasty-sounding as Teriyaki Tuna-- wouldn’t go over well with the local Tidewater restaurateurs. They’d all obviously be put to shame by both his presentation skills and by the finished product (even mass-produced for the shopping-mall masses), and then everyone would go home (deeply) unhappy. And Bill didn’t want that to happen, right?
Allison was so persuasive, I almost wanted to hire her on the front to represent me to the bigwigs at Corporate the next time I went begging for budgeting.
And just as Butch and Bill had come around to her way of thinking on this issue—as in: who best to do the cooking demo—who should just happen to walk by than our own Suzie Snow Peas.
(I later found out that Allison and Suzie planned it that way. Surprise, surprise.)
Anyway, it was only a matter of minutes before Allison, apparently off the top of her head, asked Suzie if she could maybe jump in-- at the last minute, as it were—and do a simple one- or two-wok Chinese dish. Or two.
Allison really made it look like the idea had just occurred to her, and Suzie played coy for a minute or two. But then, with encouragement (!) from both Butch and Bill, she agreed to “give it a try.” Boy, did she play that like a snake-charmer. Sure, she’d “do it for the team.” She “hoped she wouldn’t let everybody down.” Sooo humble. Sooo coy. I’m surprised Bill and Butch did offer to sous-chef for her.
But anyway, we’d succeeded! With Allison’s help, Mona Lassie’s plan had a chance of working. Now all we needed to do was not screw it up.
Fortunately, just as I was on the verge of (badly) losing the debate over who was gonna do the cooking demo, salvation arrived in the person of Deputy Rick’s wife Allison.
She’s one of those take-charge-without-anyone-asking. but she’s also one of those rare take-charge-and-keep-everybody-happy types. (She didn’t get to be station manager at her Richmond cable-TV station for nothing.)
She very quickly explained to Butch that digging up a shopping-mall parking lot for his wild boar cooking pit was not going to happen. For all sorts of very sensible reasons that somehow had eluded his imagination (and my powers of persuasion).
She also explained to Barnacle Bill that a cooking show featuring fish—even something as tempting and tasty-sounding as Teriyaki Tuna-- wouldn’t go over well with the local Tidewater restaurateurs. They’d all obviously be put to shame by both his presentation skills and by the finished product (even mass-produced for the shopping-mall masses), and then everyone would go home (deeply) unhappy. And Bill didn’t want that to happen, right?
Allison was so persuasive, I almost wanted to hire her on the front to represent me to the bigwigs at Corporate the next time I went begging for budgeting.
And just as Butch and Bill had come around to her way of thinking on this issue—as in: who best to do the cooking demo—who should just happen to walk by than our own Suzie Snow Peas.
(I later found out that Allison and Suzie planned it that way. Surprise, surprise.)
Anyway, it was only a matter of minutes before Allison, apparently off the top of her head, asked Suzie if she could maybe jump in-- at the last minute, as it were—and do a simple one- or two-wok Chinese dish. Or two.
Allison really made it look like the idea had just occurred to her, and Suzie played coy for a minute or two. But then, with encouragement (!) from both Butch and Bill, she agreed to “give it a try.” Boy, did she play that like a snake-charmer. Sure, she’d “do it for the team.” She “hoped she wouldn’t let everybody down.” Sooo humble. Sooo coy. I’m surprised Bill and Butch did offer to sous-chef for her.
But anyway, we’d succeeded! With Allison’s help, Mona Lassie’s plan had a chance of working. Now all we needed to do was not screw it up.
May 29, 2020
In the meantime, we all had to bunk down for the night. It had been a really long day.
The house in Tidewater had enough rooms that we could’ve each had our own room. We almost all could’ve had our own bedroom. With bath. It was that big.
But it was also creepy. Once the sun went down and all the food had gotten eaten, the neighborhood dogs slouched back home without much more than a few perfunctory thank-you’s. (Which was fine, really, because we were all tired.) The fact that Fifi and Suzie had hung out in the biggest bathroom for hours, and even when they’d emerged they’d carefully avoided coming into contact with any of their frustrated “suitors,” had probably added a trace of sullen-ness to how the neighborhood romeos felt when they finally left.
Anyway, with darkness came all sorts of swamp-type animal noises, and that put everybody on-edge. You know, for all that talk about how nice it is to “get back to nature,” the fact is that all of these dogs—all 8 of them—are city dogs. City dogs born and bred. “Getting in touch with nature,” for them, means turning on Animal Planet or the Discovery Channel.
(We go through this “nervousness around real-life nature” any time one of them pays me a visit where I live—which is seldom, for various reasons—because I live in the Colorado high country, and out there there’s all sorts of dangerous creatures like bears, moose, coyotes, mountain lions… Just roaming around unattended. Imagine that.)
So this particular night, once we’d all found comfortable spots to bunk down around the house (and after I’d assured everybody that I’d locked all the doors), outside we started hearing all sorts of really loud and scrarifying animal noises. Predator noises. (Obviously. If they weren’t out there doing nocturnal hunting, they would’ve been home in bed like we were.)
One alarmingly loud screeching animal kept getting closer and closer to the house, from the sound of things, until we almost thought it might ring the doorbell or maybe even just bust through the front door. I couldn’t help imagining it as some huge prehistoric pterydactyl flying monster, the kind that would eat their young straight-off, but Howie (who can sometimes be amazingly chicken-hearted for such a street-tough German Shepherd) was positive that it was something out of Jurassic Park. I said, “Maybe it’s both.”
Anyway, I had to find a way to get everybody to sleep. We had a big day the next day, what with all the preparations for the shopping-mall cooking demo and the all-important get-the-puppies-adopted presentation that we were all gonna have to help with. (Speaking of the sheepdog puppies: They were sound asleep through all the “Wild Kingdom” racket. “Dead to the world.” While my guys were quaking in their boots like a school full of terrified school-girl ballerinas. Go figure.)
In the meantime, we all had to bunk down for the night. It had been a really long day.
The house in Tidewater had enough rooms that we could’ve each had our own room. We almost all could’ve had our own bedroom. With bath. It was that big.
But it was also creepy. Once the sun went down and all the food had gotten eaten, the neighborhood dogs slouched back home without much more than a few perfunctory thank-you’s. (Which was fine, really, because we were all tired.) The fact that Fifi and Suzie had hung out in the biggest bathroom for hours, and even when they’d emerged they’d carefully avoided coming into contact with any of their frustrated “suitors,” had probably added a trace of sullen-ness to how the neighborhood romeos felt when they finally left.
Anyway, with darkness came all sorts of swamp-type animal noises, and that put everybody on-edge. You know, for all that talk about how nice it is to “get back to nature,” the fact is that all of these dogs—all 8 of them—are city dogs. City dogs born and bred. “Getting in touch with nature,” for them, means turning on Animal Planet or the Discovery Channel.
(We go through this “nervousness around real-life nature” any time one of them pays me a visit where I live—which is seldom, for various reasons—because I live in the Colorado high country, and out there there’s all sorts of dangerous creatures like bears, moose, coyotes, mountain lions… Just roaming around unattended. Imagine that.)
So this particular night, once we’d all found comfortable spots to bunk down around the house (and after I’d assured everybody that I’d locked all the doors), outside we started hearing all sorts of really loud and scrarifying animal noises. Predator noises. (Obviously. If they weren’t out there doing nocturnal hunting, they would’ve been home in bed like we were.)
One alarmingly loud screeching animal kept getting closer and closer to the house, from the sound of things, until we almost thought it might ring the doorbell or maybe even just bust through the front door. I couldn’t help imagining it as some huge prehistoric pterydactyl flying monster, the kind that would eat their young straight-off, but Howie (who can sometimes be amazingly chicken-hearted for such a street-tough German Shepherd) was positive that it was something out of Jurassic Park. I said, “Maybe it’s both.”
Anyway, I had to find a way to get everybody to sleep. We had a big day the next day, what with all the preparations for the shopping-mall cooking demo and the all-important get-the-puppies-adopted presentation that we were all gonna have to help with. (Speaking of the sheepdog puppies: They were sound asleep through all the “Wild Kingdom” racket. “Dead to the world.” While my guys were quaking in their boots like a school full of terrified school-girl ballerinas. Go figure.)
June 1, 2020
What to do?
Warm milk and cookies? Ghost stories around the campfire?
A fire (in the fireplace) seemed like a good idea, so I sent Butch and Barnacle Bill outside (with flashlights) to grab some firewood. It was stacked right there beside the back porch, so it wasn’t like they were going to have to go out into the “forest” to forage for it. (It was actually more like a swamp, back there, than a forest, which is maybe why all the nighttime noises sounded so foreign and potentially dangerous, even to me.)
Well, getting the fire started in the fireplace wasn’t as easy as I’d figured, but we finally doused it with so much charcoal fluid that we probably sent a plume of flame 50 feet up the chimney, and the semi-damp wood finally caught. I really didn’t relish the idea of burning some total stranger’s house down, especially since we’d just gotten out of jail up in Baltimore that very morning. (And just think: the fire department had been out here just a few hours earlier. Maybe we should’ve invited them to stay for the night.)
So we got everyone settled on the floor of the big living room, and the fire was blazing away (more or less), and somewhere someone had found a raft of sleeping bags, so we all started to get tucked in and cuddled down (and Howie eventually stopped farting)…
… and then Maggie decided that she was hungry. (So what else was new? you might ask.)
So just when everybody else was almost nodding off, now everybody’s back wide awake. Great. We had a busy day ahead of us, I’d figured, and now I didn’t know when we even be getting back to sleep.
So we all trooped back into the kitchen, to see what all was left to eat. Which, of course, was plenty. And, being a troop of 8 world-class chefs, the possibilities were endless. Which was not necessarily a good thing. What I really wanted was for everybody to get something to eat and then to get back to sleep. We didn’t need an extended cooking session.
And surprisingly as always, they all decided that nobody really wanted to cook. They were, after all, really really tired. It’s just that, having been woken back up by Maggie Scroungehound, they all wanted something to eat.
And you’d think that 8 world-famous chefs would be a little bit more “discriminating,” but you’d be wrong. Cuz what we wound up having was canned salmon and Fruit Loops. Fruit Loops dry—no milk. Just lots and lots of water, all around. (Which meant that there’d be lots of middle-of-the-night trips out the back door, one dog after another. Squeaky screen door opening, squeaky screen door banging shut. Over and over, all night long. Great.
Still, at least they’d finally get to sleep. (And I’d better, too, before Howie started farting again. With all that salmon inside him, it could be deadly.)
Sometimes I just have to feel grateful when everybody’s quieted down, nobody’s fighting or complaining.
You know that saying: “Let sleeping dogs lie?”
What to do?
Warm milk and cookies? Ghost stories around the campfire?
A fire (in the fireplace) seemed like a good idea, so I sent Butch and Barnacle Bill outside (with flashlights) to grab some firewood. It was stacked right there beside the back porch, so it wasn’t like they were going to have to go out into the “forest” to forage for it. (It was actually more like a swamp, back there, than a forest, which is maybe why all the nighttime noises sounded so foreign and potentially dangerous, even to me.)
Well, getting the fire started in the fireplace wasn’t as easy as I’d figured, but we finally doused it with so much charcoal fluid that we probably sent a plume of flame 50 feet up the chimney, and the semi-damp wood finally caught. I really didn’t relish the idea of burning some total stranger’s house down, especially since we’d just gotten out of jail up in Baltimore that very morning. (And just think: the fire department had been out here just a few hours earlier. Maybe we should’ve invited them to stay for the night.)
So we got everyone settled on the floor of the big living room, and the fire was blazing away (more or less), and somewhere someone had found a raft of sleeping bags, so we all started to get tucked in and cuddled down (and Howie eventually stopped farting)…
… and then Maggie decided that she was hungry. (So what else was new? you might ask.)
So just when everybody else was almost nodding off, now everybody’s back wide awake. Great. We had a busy day ahead of us, I’d figured, and now I didn’t know when we even be getting back to sleep.
So we all trooped back into the kitchen, to see what all was left to eat. Which, of course, was plenty. And, being a troop of 8 world-class chefs, the possibilities were endless. Which was not necessarily a good thing. What I really wanted was for everybody to get something to eat and then to get back to sleep. We didn’t need an extended cooking session.
And surprisingly as always, they all decided that nobody really wanted to cook. They were, after all, really really tired. It’s just that, having been woken back up by Maggie Scroungehound, they all wanted something to eat.
And you’d think that 8 world-famous chefs would be a little bit more “discriminating,” but you’d be wrong. Cuz what we wound up having was canned salmon and Fruit Loops. Fruit Loops dry—no milk. Just lots and lots of water, all around. (Which meant that there’d be lots of middle-of-the-night trips out the back door, one dog after another. Squeaky screen door opening, squeaky screen door banging shut. Over and over, all night long. Great.
Still, at least they’d finally get to sleep. (And I’d better, too, before Howie started farting again. With all that salmon inside him, it could be deadly.)
Sometimes I just have to feel grateful when everybody’s quieted down, nobody’s fighting or complaining.
You know that saying: “Let sleeping dogs lie?”
June 2, 2020
Of course, nobody’d volunteered to clean up, either. But that was normal.
Fortunately I managed to find the vacuum cleaner, so I hoovered up all the spilled Fruit Loops in basically no time. And they’d licked all the cans of salmon clean, so all I had to do was start a big recycle bin (which I knew we’d be adding to, soon enough.)
And I didn’t have to worry about waking anybody up: They were all dead to the world. (It really had been a long day.) Still, it’s surprising how loud a good vacuum can sound, in the middle of the night, in the middle of a veritable swamp. The noise even drowned out the scary nocturnal-hunting creature screeches coming from the depths of the swamp or, just possibly, a lot closer than that. One particularly blood-curdling cry sounded like a huge prehistoric duck having its neck wrung by an even bigger King Kong-type prehistoric gorilla.
And the dogs slept through it all. Amazing.
The fire in the fireplace died down, and I didn’t bother to refresh it. If for no other reason than the fact that I’d have to go outside myself and get more firewood, and I really didn’t feel brave enough to venture outside alone to fetch it.
(And it’d be just the thing, to have Butch wake up while I was outside and decide that’d be great fun to lock me out. That would be just the sort of practical joke that he’d find immensely funny. And I’d be outside, banging on the door and begging someone to let me back in, and he’d just lie back down and pretend to not hear me. Yeah, very funny, while I was maybe gonna wind up as some jungle creature’s dinner.)
Anyway, I’d really been hoping to put the scare into all of them. You know, before everybody’d fallen asleep.
I’d had the notion to get the fire stoked up, and have them all lying there on the living-room floor, all tucked into their blankets and comfy, and then tell them a real spooky story.
I’d been trying to remember that story from the movie “The Great Outdoors,” when John Candy has the kids sitting around the fire in the cabin, and he starts telling them about this really big and dangerous bear from the “North Woods.” And right when he gets to the most scary part, when the bear’s beating down the door to the cabin (the kids listening to him are really feeling scared), he throws something really flammable onto the fire, and it goes “Whoosh!” real loud, and scares the s--- out of everyone.
Anyway, now I wasn’t gonna be able to do that, cuz everybody just fell asleep. At best, I’d have to hold that idea and maybe pull it on them tomorrow night.
For the moment, I guessed, I’d have to content myself with finishing cleaning up the kitchen. Bummer.
Of course, nobody’d volunteered to clean up, either. But that was normal.
Fortunately I managed to find the vacuum cleaner, so I hoovered up all the spilled Fruit Loops in basically no time. And they’d licked all the cans of salmon clean, so all I had to do was start a big recycle bin (which I knew we’d be adding to, soon enough.)
And I didn’t have to worry about waking anybody up: They were all dead to the world. (It really had been a long day.) Still, it’s surprising how loud a good vacuum can sound, in the middle of the night, in the middle of a veritable swamp. The noise even drowned out the scary nocturnal-hunting creature screeches coming from the depths of the swamp or, just possibly, a lot closer than that. One particularly blood-curdling cry sounded like a huge prehistoric duck having its neck wrung by an even bigger King Kong-type prehistoric gorilla.
And the dogs slept through it all. Amazing.
The fire in the fireplace died down, and I didn’t bother to refresh it. If for no other reason than the fact that I’d have to go outside myself and get more firewood, and I really didn’t feel brave enough to venture outside alone to fetch it.
(And it’d be just the thing, to have Butch wake up while I was outside and decide that’d be great fun to lock me out. That would be just the sort of practical joke that he’d find immensely funny. And I’d be outside, banging on the door and begging someone to let me back in, and he’d just lie back down and pretend to not hear me. Yeah, very funny, while I was maybe gonna wind up as some jungle creature’s dinner.)
Anyway, I’d really been hoping to put the scare into all of them. You know, before everybody’d fallen asleep.
I’d had the notion to get the fire stoked up, and have them all lying there on the living-room floor, all tucked into their blankets and comfy, and then tell them a real spooky story.
I’d been trying to remember that story from the movie “The Great Outdoors,” when John Candy has the kids sitting around the fire in the cabin, and he starts telling them about this really big and dangerous bear from the “North Woods.” And right when he gets to the most scary part, when the bear’s beating down the door to the cabin (the kids listening to him are really feeling scared), he throws something really flammable onto the fire, and it goes “Whoosh!” real loud, and scares the s--- out of everyone.
Anyway, now I wasn’t gonna be able to do that, cuz everybody just fell asleep. At best, I’d have to hold that idea and maybe pull it on them tomorrow night.
For the moment, I guessed, I’d have to content myself with finishing cleaning up the kitchen. Bummer.
June 3, 2020
We might’ve all slept until noon, the next day, if it hadn’t been for Deputy Rick’s wife Allison’s calling the house at basically the crack of dawn. Ever helpful, ever the organizer (albeit very pleasantly), she wanted what we needed by way of getting ready for the following day’s (Saturday) cooking demo.
My first question was: What grocery store could we ransack for supplies? We sure couldn’t go the one we’d visited the day before. (Talk about “wearing out your welcome.” We’d turned the place into “Supermarket Sweep” almost instantly. They’d probably call out the National Guard if we pulled into their parking lot again.)
Allison not only suggested another grocery. She even said that she’d call them ahead of time to warn them. AND: We could put charge everything to her TV station! (I wasn’t sure I was gonna tell the guys about that. Talk about carte blanche.)
We discussed where exactly this shopping mall was, what time we should arrive for set-up tomorrow, various other logistical matters (like making sure my guys would behave with a crowd-full of moms and kids). I was sure that Allison and I would be chatting quite a few more times that day.
Meanwhile, I had to set a couple of the guys to Kitchen Patrol, a couple more to house-and-yard clean-up duty. That never goes well. These guys, after all, are Grade-A prima donnas. Work detail, to their minds, is for “Staff.” Which usually translates as: me. Yours truly.
Thoughtlessly, I asked Fifi and Suzie to go out to the bus and retrieve all of the sleeping pads and blankets, so we could throw them all in the washing machine (and get some of the ever-present “scent” out of them. The bus does develop a build-up of dog scent—real quickly. And of course, it never seems to bother THEM.)
And Fifi and Suzie immediately said that they weren’t setting paw outside, not with all those neighborhood mongrels snooping around.
I looked out the window and didn’t see anybody out there. And I told them that they couldn’t stay locked up inside forever. But they wouldn’t budge. (I mean, I can understand, after they’d been chased around and around and around the yard for pretty-near forever the night before by all those randy Dobermans and German Shepherds and what-not, while trying to distract them enough so that the rest of us could sneak into the house, that Fifi and Suzie wouldn’t want to have to repeat that endurance event all over again. But they were part of a team, and the team needed them to pitch in.)
Suzie, of course, had the excuse of needing to mentally prepare for her solo cooking demonstration. There is, admittedly, a lot that goes into doing a public cooking demo. Not just the recipes and the grocery list. These guys are all “showmen.” Just like stage actors. They’ve gotta sharpen their persona, write “the script,” rehearse the jokes and prepare for the unexpected. There’s a lot to be done. So it’s often best to leave them alone in their trailer, as it were.
Meanwhile, the rest of the gang was chowing down on a big big breakfast (so what else was new?) and discussing how they could jazz up the cooking demonstration with maybe some ancillary events. Sort-of like turning a simple shopping-mall parking-lot cooking demo into a 3-ring circus.
One bright idea: a water-balloon throwing contest. (Yeah, that couldn’t possibly devolve into utter chaos. Picture a million kids running around throwing water balloons. No problem.)
Then someone found this picture in a magazine that was lying around, and suggested inviting celebrities to participate in a rocket-throwing contest. Yeah, that’d be a sure winner.
(The one irony in that being, of course, that usually my guys considered themselves to be the only true “celebrities.”)
Anyway, picture this:
We might’ve all slept until noon, the next day, if it hadn’t been for Deputy Rick’s wife Allison’s calling the house at basically the crack of dawn. Ever helpful, ever the organizer (albeit very pleasantly), she wanted what we needed by way of getting ready for the following day’s (Saturday) cooking demo.
My first question was: What grocery store could we ransack for supplies? We sure couldn’t go the one we’d visited the day before. (Talk about “wearing out your welcome.” We’d turned the place into “Supermarket Sweep” almost instantly. They’d probably call out the National Guard if we pulled into their parking lot again.)
Allison not only suggested another grocery. She even said that she’d call them ahead of time to warn them. AND: We could put charge everything to her TV station! (I wasn’t sure I was gonna tell the guys about that. Talk about carte blanche.)
We discussed where exactly this shopping mall was, what time we should arrive for set-up tomorrow, various other logistical matters (like making sure my guys would behave with a crowd-full of moms and kids). I was sure that Allison and I would be chatting quite a few more times that day.
Meanwhile, I had to set a couple of the guys to Kitchen Patrol, a couple more to house-and-yard clean-up duty. That never goes well. These guys, after all, are Grade-A prima donnas. Work detail, to their minds, is for “Staff.” Which usually translates as: me. Yours truly.
Thoughtlessly, I asked Fifi and Suzie to go out to the bus and retrieve all of the sleeping pads and blankets, so we could throw them all in the washing machine (and get some of the ever-present “scent” out of them. The bus does develop a build-up of dog scent—real quickly. And of course, it never seems to bother THEM.)
And Fifi and Suzie immediately said that they weren’t setting paw outside, not with all those neighborhood mongrels snooping around.
I looked out the window and didn’t see anybody out there. And I told them that they couldn’t stay locked up inside forever. But they wouldn’t budge. (I mean, I can understand, after they’d been chased around and around and around the yard for pretty-near forever the night before by all those randy Dobermans and German Shepherds and what-not, while trying to distract them enough so that the rest of us could sneak into the house, that Fifi and Suzie wouldn’t want to have to repeat that endurance event all over again. But they were part of a team, and the team needed them to pitch in.)
Suzie, of course, had the excuse of needing to mentally prepare for her solo cooking demonstration. There is, admittedly, a lot that goes into doing a public cooking demo. Not just the recipes and the grocery list. These guys are all “showmen.” Just like stage actors. They’ve gotta sharpen their persona, write “the script,” rehearse the jokes and prepare for the unexpected. There’s a lot to be done. So it’s often best to leave them alone in their trailer, as it were.
Meanwhile, the rest of the gang was chowing down on a big big breakfast (so what else was new?) and discussing how they could jazz up the cooking demonstration with maybe some ancillary events. Sort-of like turning a simple shopping-mall parking-lot cooking demo into a 3-ring circus.
One bright idea: a water-balloon throwing contest. (Yeah, that couldn’t possibly devolve into utter chaos. Picture a million kids running around throwing water balloons. No problem.)
Then someone found this picture in a magazine that was lying around, and suggested inviting celebrities to participate in a rocket-throwing contest. Yeah, that’d be a sure winner.
(The one irony in that being, of course, that usually my guys considered themselves to be the only true “celebrities.”)
Anyway, picture this:
June 4, 2020
Who wouldn’t drive 100, 200 miles just to see folks like Prince What’s-His-Name toss a few rocket balloons around? We should get Allison to start publicizing this right away. It might wind up bigger than the Super Bowl, bigger than Woodstock. You think?
Sometimes I just let my guys talk and talk, and I can ignore whatever they dream up. It keeps them outta trouble, and it generally goes nowhere. If for no other reason than pretty soon they get tired of talking and arguing and decide that what they want is to find something to eat, and then take a good long nap.
Which, unless I’ve got some sort of work for them to do, is fine.
Today, however, we had work to do.
As you might guess, just about anywhere, any time, it behooves the grateful and courteous house guest to “keep it clean.” Not just pick up after yourself, but essentially don’t leave the place looking worse than you found it.
In our (collective) case, I didn’t even know for sure that Terry’s supposed “old friend” had actually “invited” us to stay at this moss-laden sprawling semi-decaying (though comfortable) southern mansion. (And I didn’t want to saddle Deputy Rick with the extra burden of finding out, belatedly, that the real owner had never heard of Terry, much less offered him the use of his house, and so we needed to get evicted. If not tossed in the clink for trespassing and maybe even breaking-and-entering and/or vandalism. Heck, we’d just gotten outta jail the night before, up in Baltimore.)
Even if we were officially-invited and –approved guests, we still needed to keep the place spic-and-span, lint-free clean. So straight-away after breakfast, I needed to start assigning work duties. Inside and outside…
And so, of course, everybody volunteered to clean the pool. Which they figured would simply be a matter of splashing around in it some more.
Which, it turned out, was really all it took. (After last night’s pool party/surfing lessons, the water looked a heck of a lot better than the leaf-and-slime-encrusted swamp we’d seen when we’d first arrived.
So I relented. I’m always that way. I’ve gotta be the softest touch on the planet.
So we wound up putting off doing any cleaning inside the house, other than stowing all the blankets and sleeping pads we’d strewn around the living room to sleep in, the night before, and before I knew it, we were in the middle of yet another rowdy pool party.
Isn’t that always the way?
(It is in my world.)
(And if you’ve been following our “adventures” for any period of time, you know that, even in the best of circumstances, I seldom pass up an opportunity to get each of these guys to bathe. I mean, some of them, like Maggie and Howie, absolutely love the water, and they’ll jump into any pond or ditch they see. But there are certain others of us who are, shall we say, a bit “finicky” about how they get their coats wet. And we really need everybody to practice proper personal “hygiene,” cuz it can get real dicey real quick in the confines of the Tour Bus. So there are far worse things, to my mind, than a little additional “down time” in a swimming pool… And certainly, with keen-eyed ever-vigilant dogs like Maggie Scroungehound on Life Guard duty, what could possibly go wrong?)
Who wouldn’t drive 100, 200 miles just to see folks like Prince What’s-His-Name toss a few rocket balloons around? We should get Allison to start publicizing this right away. It might wind up bigger than the Super Bowl, bigger than Woodstock. You think?
Sometimes I just let my guys talk and talk, and I can ignore whatever they dream up. It keeps them outta trouble, and it generally goes nowhere. If for no other reason than pretty soon they get tired of talking and arguing and decide that what they want is to find something to eat, and then take a good long nap.
Which, unless I’ve got some sort of work for them to do, is fine.
Today, however, we had work to do.
As you might guess, just about anywhere, any time, it behooves the grateful and courteous house guest to “keep it clean.” Not just pick up after yourself, but essentially don’t leave the place looking worse than you found it.
In our (collective) case, I didn’t even know for sure that Terry’s supposed “old friend” had actually “invited” us to stay at this moss-laden sprawling semi-decaying (though comfortable) southern mansion. (And I didn’t want to saddle Deputy Rick with the extra burden of finding out, belatedly, that the real owner had never heard of Terry, much less offered him the use of his house, and so we needed to get evicted. If not tossed in the clink for trespassing and maybe even breaking-and-entering and/or vandalism. Heck, we’d just gotten outta jail the night before, up in Baltimore.)
Even if we were officially-invited and –approved guests, we still needed to keep the place spic-and-span, lint-free clean. So straight-away after breakfast, I needed to start assigning work duties. Inside and outside…
And so, of course, everybody volunteered to clean the pool. Which they figured would simply be a matter of splashing around in it some more.
Which, it turned out, was really all it took. (After last night’s pool party/surfing lessons, the water looked a heck of a lot better than the leaf-and-slime-encrusted swamp we’d seen when we’d first arrived.
So I relented. I’m always that way. I’ve gotta be the softest touch on the planet.
So we wound up putting off doing any cleaning inside the house, other than stowing all the blankets and sleeping pads we’d strewn around the living room to sleep in, the night before, and before I knew it, we were in the middle of yet another rowdy pool party.
Isn’t that always the way?
(It is in my world.)
(And if you’ve been following our “adventures” for any period of time, you know that, even in the best of circumstances, I seldom pass up an opportunity to get each of these guys to bathe. I mean, some of them, like Maggie and Howie, absolutely love the water, and they’ll jump into any pond or ditch they see. But there are certain others of us who are, shall we say, a bit “finicky” about how they get their coats wet. And we really need everybody to practice proper personal “hygiene,” cuz it can get real dicey real quick in the confines of the Tour Bus. So there are far worse things, to my mind, than a little additional “down time” in a swimming pool… And certainly, with keen-eyed ever-vigilant dogs like Maggie Scroungehound on Life Guard duty, what could possibly go wrong?)
June 5, 2020
Well, nothing. At least right away.
(And isn’t that always the way?)
And then the phone rang.
It was Allison (Deputy Rick’s wife, the TV station manager). Which should’ve been fine. I mean, I’d just talked to her an hour earlier, when she’d given me instructions for Grocery Store #2, the one we could go to and buy whatever supplies we needed for the next day’s cooking demo.
This time she had a different message.
She’d arranged a photo shoot—at the house—for one of the local newspapers in Richmond. (One of the local papers? How many newspapers did Richmond have? I hoped it wasn’t one of those shopping mailer things, or some real-estate rag. I mean, not to be disparaging or anything, but a town the size of Richmond must have a for-real general-circulation legitimate-news newspaper, right? Right? I sure hoped so.)
Anyway, the problem was: They were gonna be here in an hour. As in: One hour.
Pandemonium.
Remember: I travel with 8 totally completely—manifestly—self-centered prima donnas. These are guys whose whole lives would be spent in front of the cameras, if they had their way. (Why do you think they’re constantly tinkering with this movie treatment of theirs? You know: the one that’s never going to get made? If for no other reason that they’d never agree on who was gonna get to be the Numero Uno star? Yeah, that movie treatment.)
And now I have to inform them—I may as well have set off an air-raid siren—that “The Press” was going to be on our doorstep in 60 minutes. You’ve never seen a swimming pool clear out so fast. It’s like I’d started shouting, “SHARKS!”
And in about 15 seconds, the whole house is in an uproar.
No, there weren’t 8 separate bathrooms that my 8 dogs could use to get ready. There were like 3, so they’d all have to share, somehow. (Which is a totally alien concept, when you’re a TV celebrity and you’ll soon have to face your “public.” Or adoring public, is how they usually think of it.)
They must’ve burned off 1000 calories each, what with all the dashing about, rushing back to the Tour Bus for makeup and changes of clothes. Nobody could find anything, so they kept accusing each other of hiding their stuff (or even stealing it). And of course there was no time to put anything in the washing machine, so everything they did manage to find was pretty darned wrinkled. (Dogs aren’t real good at folding things. At least my guys aren’t.)
After about 15 minutes of chaos, they all ganged up and decided that this “dilemma” was all MY fault. That I should’ve given them a lot more warning. Like maybe if I’d told them about this last night, they would’ve gotten some more sleep and not wound up with all those bags under their eyes.
Sometimes I wonder why I ever volunteered for this gig…
Then I remember how much I get paid… And it eases the pain… A bit… Sometimes.
Like now. After all, this wasn’t my problem. The newspaper wasn’t coming here to take MY picture. All I had to do was open the door, when they rang the bell, and introduce everybody. (I’d forgotten to ask Allison of she’d be accompanying the newspaper person/people. Probably not. She undoubtedly had a ton of other stuff on her plate to arrange, before tomorrow’s shopping-mall live-remote.)
And one thing was certain: The moment these newspaper folks were on our doorstep, all 8 of my guys would be totally presentable and totally charming… and totally wired. This is what they lived for. Attention.
Got that? ATTENTION. My guys lived for it.
You have heard the term: “Publicity Hound.”
That’s them. To a T.
Well, nothing. At least right away.
(And isn’t that always the way?)
And then the phone rang.
It was Allison (Deputy Rick’s wife, the TV station manager). Which should’ve been fine. I mean, I’d just talked to her an hour earlier, when she’d given me instructions for Grocery Store #2, the one we could go to and buy whatever supplies we needed for the next day’s cooking demo.
This time she had a different message.
She’d arranged a photo shoot—at the house—for one of the local newspapers in Richmond. (One of the local papers? How many newspapers did Richmond have? I hoped it wasn’t one of those shopping mailer things, or some real-estate rag. I mean, not to be disparaging or anything, but a town the size of Richmond must have a for-real general-circulation legitimate-news newspaper, right? Right? I sure hoped so.)
Anyway, the problem was: They were gonna be here in an hour. As in: One hour.
Pandemonium.
Remember: I travel with 8 totally completely—manifestly—self-centered prima donnas. These are guys whose whole lives would be spent in front of the cameras, if they had their way. (Why do you think they’re constantly tinkering with this movie treatment of theirs? You know: the one that’s never going to get made? If for no other reason that they’d never agree on who was gonna get to be the Numero Uno star? Yeah, that movie treatment.)
And now I have to inform them—I may as well have set off an air-raid siren—that “The Press” was going to be on our doorstep in 60 minutes. You’ve never seen a swimming pool clear out so fast. It’s like I’d started shouting, “SHARKS!”
And in about 15 seconds, the whole house is in an uproar.
No, there weren’t 8 separate bathrooms that my 8 dogs could use to get ready. There were like 3, so they’d all have to share, somehow. (Which is a totally alien concept, when you’re a TV celebrity and you’ll soon have to face your “public.” Or adoring public, is how they usually think of it.)
They must’ve burned off 1000 calories each, what with all the dashing about, rushing back to the Tour Bus for makeup and changes of clothes. Nobody could find anything, so they kept accusing each other of hiding their stuff (or even stealing it). And of course there was no time to put anything in the washing machine, so everything they did manage to find was pretty darned wrinkled. (Dogs aren’t real good at folding things. At least my guys aren’t.)
After about 15 minutes of chaos, they all ganged up and decided that this “dilemma” was all MY fault. That I should’ve given them a lot more warning. Like maybe if I’d told them about this last night, they would’ve gotten some more sleep and not wound up with all those bags under their eyes.
Sometimes I wonder why I ever volunteered for this gig…
Then I remember how much I get paid… And it eases the pain… A bit… Sometimes.
Like now. After all, this wasn’t my problem. The newspaper wasn’t coming here to take MY picture. All I had to do was open the door, when they rang the bell, and introduce everybody. (I’d forgotten to ask Allison of she’d be accompanying the newspaper person/people. Probably not. She undoubtedly had a ton of other stuff on her plate to arrange, before tomorrow’s shopping-mall live-remote.)
And one thing was certain: The moment these newspaper folks were on our doorstep, all 8 of my guys would be totally presentable and totally charming… and totally wired. This is what they lived for. Attention.
Got that? ATTENTION. My guys lived for it.
You have heard the term: “Publicity Hound.”
That’s them. To a T.
June 8, 2020
But I have to admit, they outdid themselves. Maybe it was the lack of attention they’d been getting for so long. Maybe it was a reaction to the shock of having spent a night in jail. (I mean, it was more than a bit humiliating, even if mostly deserved.) Or being hunkered down—cooped up—in this decrepit mansion, with all those unfriendly neighborhood dogs lurking about. Or maybe it was this vague, open-ended where-do-we-go-now? What-the-heck-are-we-accomplishing-out-here-on-the-road-anyway? Feeling that would’ve been mostly (I admit) MY fault.
Because we hadn’t even discussed what the point of this ongoing “Tour” was. I mean, everything had been going mostly according to plan, until we hit Baltimore. (And you might be wondering, as we often did: Why is it always Baltimore that causes the problem? Or punches our collective self-destructive button?)
I should’ve had a meeting to discuss things with everybody, but events seemed to be moving so fast that I’d never found the time.
And now we had these newspaper people arriving any minute.
Which they did. “They” being one photographer and one “reporter” intern. Or maybe they were both interns. But from my guys perspective, at least one of the newspaper people (the girl) had a camera around her neck, and that was all my guys needed to start hamming things up. Immediately.
These two perfectly presentable, perfectly polite, probably perfectly nice young people showed up. Politely rang the doorbell. Politely introduced themselves, and before they knew it, they had 8 very aggressive celebrity TV chefs demanding their undivided attention. (Undivided, as in: “Don’t bother paying attention to anybody but ME! ME! I am the start of this show.” “I” being, in order, Fifi, Butch, Mona Lassie, Terry, Suzie, Barnacle Bill, Maggie, Howie. They’ll all shamefaced self-promoters. Take your pick.)
I did manage to dis-entangle the two innocent cub reporters from them eventually, and then—trying to be professional about this—asked them for their credentials and asked them what sort of “photo spread” or “teaser” they were planning to write.
It turned out that they worked for some paper in the Richmond area that I’d never even heard of (and my guys, of course, don’t bother reading anything that’s not about them, which is usually only the national press—big-city newspapers and cooking magazines), and that they were really (sort-of, at least) being paid by the “major new retailor” itself, the business that was the whole point of tomorrow’s wingding in the shopping-mall parking lot. So I needn’t expect too much in the way of “journalism,” so much as a puff piece to pump up pre-event publicity for the cooking demonstration.
And it was at that point that events took a turn for the worse. At least, from my point of view. From my (admittedly selfish) can-we-please-stick-to-the-script? Can-we-please-not-lose-control-of-ourselves? Point of view. I mean, we ARE supposed to be TV professionals, not a circus act.
But no. As soon as that attractive young woman pulled the lens cap off of her camera, my guys’ self-control went right out the window.
Do you remember how we’d collectively decided that Suzie was going to do the cooking demonstration? All by herself? Well, that decision instantly became history. (As in: Never happened.) Now each of my guys decided that THEY (each of them) were gonna do tomorrow’s cooking demo. Each of them. And a huge fight broke out. (I’m almost ashamed to have to write this down.)
There was enough barking and snarling and snapping and biting to do a Saturday night brawl at the shelter. It was so childish. So embarrassing.
And to cap it off, when each of my guys realized that they weren’t going to prevail (weren’t get to steal the star away from Suzie and her already-voted-on role), they resorted to trying to upstage her. Hugely.
One after another, they started shouting out more and more outlandish ideas for doing the most extravagant cooking demo in the history of celebrity cooking. I mean, going back to Julia Child, the galloping Gourmet. Outdoing history.
Before I knew it, Terry and Barnacle Bill pulled out a magazine that had a picture in it of some event in Slovenia or somewhere where a bunch of people had cooked the world’s largest cheese omelet. 4000 eggs, or something. And Terry and Bill announced that tonight THEY (the two of them) were gonna go fishing (on somebody’s trawler) and then tomorrow, THEY were gonna make the world’s largest-ever fish taco.
The world’s largest… ever… fish taco.
Right there in the parking lot.
And they turned, smiling, to our two cub reporters, and practically dared them to not be on-hand, cameras ready, at that parking lot tomorrow…
When Terry and Barnacle Bill assembled the world’s largest-ever fish taco.
Like these two innocent young “journalism” interns might win a Pulitzer Prize for reporting on it.
Sheesh.
But I have to admit, they outdid themselves. Maybe it was the lack of attention they’d been getting for so long. Maybe it was a reaction to the shock of having spent a night in jail. (I mean, it was more than a bit humiliating, even if mostly deserved.) Or being hunkered down—cooped up—in this decrepit mansion, with all those unfriendly neighborhood dogs lurking about. Or maybe it was this vague, open-ended where-do-we-go-now? What-the-heck-are-we-accomplishing-out-here-on-the-road-anyway? Feeling that would’ve been mostly (I admit) MY fault.
Because we hadn’t even discussed what the point of this ongoing “Tour” was. I mean, everything had been going mostly according to plan, until we hit Baltimore. (And you might be wondering, as we often did: Why is it always Baltimore that causes the problem? Or punches our collective self-destructive button?)
I should’ve had a meeting to discuss things with everybody, but events seemed to be moving so fast that I’d never found the time.
And now we had these newspaper people arriving any minute.
Which they did. “They” being one photographer and one “reporter” intern. Or maybe they were both interns. But from my guys perspective, at least one of the newspaper people (the girl) had a camera around her neck, and that was all my guys needed to start hamming things up. Immediately.
These two perfectly presentable, perfectly polite, probably perfectly nice young people showed up. Politely rang the doorbell. Politely introduced themselves, and before they knew it, they had 8 very aggressive celebrity TV chefs demanding their undivided attention. (Undivided, as in: “Don’t bother paying attention to anybody but ME! ME! I am the start of this show.” “I” being, in order, Fifi, Butch, Mona Lassie, Terry, Suzie, Barnacle Bill, Maggie, Howie. They’ll all shamefaced self-promoters. Take your pick.)
I did manage to dis-entangle the two innocent cub reporters from them eventually, and then—trying to be professional about this—asked them for their credentials and asked them what sort of “photo spread” or “teaser” they were planning to write.
It turned out that they worked for some paper in the Richmond area that I’d never even heard of (and my guys, of course, don’t bother reading anything that’s not about them, which is usually only the national press—big-city newspapers and cooking magazines), and that they were really (sort-of, at least) being paid by the “major new retailor” itself, the business that was the whole point of tomorrow’s wingding in the shopping-mall parking lot. So I needn’t expect too much in the way of “journalism,” so much as a puff piece to pump up pre-event publicity for the cooking demonstration.
And it was at that point that events took a turn for the worse. At least, from my point of view. From my (admittedly selfish) can-we-please-stick-to-the-script? Can-we-please-not-lose-control-of-ourselves? Point of view. I mean, we ARE supposed to be TV professionals, not a circus act.
But no. As soon as that attractive young woman pulled the lens cap off of her camera, my guys’ self-control went right out the window.
Do you remember how we’d collectively decided that Suzie was going to do the cooking demonstration? All by herself? Well, that decision instantly became history. (As in: Never happened.) Now each of my guys decided that THEY (each of them) were gonna do tomorrow’s cooking demo. Each of them. And a huge fight broke out. (I’m almost ashamed to have to write this down.)
There was enough barking and snarling and snapping and biting to do a Saturday night brawl at the shelter. It was so childish. So embarrassing.
And to cap it off, when each of my guys realized that they weren’t going to prevail (weren’t get to steal the star away from Suzie and her already-voted-on role), they resorted to trying to upstage her. Hugely.
One after another, they started shouting out more and more outlandish ideas for doing the most extravagant cooking demo in the history of celebrity cooking. I mean, going back to Julia Child, the galloping Gourmet. Outdoing history.
Before I knew it, Terry and Barnacle Bill pulled out a magazine that had a picture in it of some event in Slovenia or somewhere where a bunch of people had cooked the world’s largest cheese omelet. 4000 eggs, or something. And Terry and Bill announced that tonight THEY (the two of them) were gonna go fishing (on somebody’s trawler) and then tomorrow, THEY were gonna make the world’s largest-ever fish taco.
The world’s largest… ever… fish taco.
Right there in the parking lot.
And they turned, smiling, to our two cub reporters, and practically dared them to not be on-hand, cameras ready, at that parking lot tomorrow…
When Terry and Barnacle Bill assembled the world’s largest-ever fish taco.
Like these two innocent young “journalism” interns might win a Pulitzer Prize for reporting on it.
Sheesh.
June 9, 2020
I’ve been through things like this before. (I don’t want to admit how often.) And what I’ve learned from past experiences is: Sometimes you just have to take the bull by the horns. Even if you wind up in the muck.
(You know that I’m a big fan of the Cohn Brothers movie “The Big Lebowski.” One of the many good lines in it is when Sam Elliott wisely observes, “Sometimes you eat the bear. Sometimes it eats you.” Or something like that. I mean, I haven’t actually memorized the whole movie… Unlike “Dirty Dancing,” which I could probably recite word for word.
(Another like-minded saying that I once heard from a baseball player, vis-à-vis “King Kong”: “Some days you’re King Kong. Somedays you’re Fay Wray.”)
Anyway, things were starting to careen out of control with my charges, and I have enough experience with them to know that matters would probably not improve unless I did something drastic.
Each of my guys was trying to corner these 2 unfortunate journalism interns (or whatever they were) and tell them their life’s story, complete with every heartbreaking moment they could invent from the day they were born. So there were 8 howling canines with 8 rags-to-riches-and-fame stories to tell— none of which were even remotely true—and only 2 blindsided civilians armed only with one camera and one notepad, and this assault on the free press would continue until I figured out a way to interrupt things in a big way.
So I resorted to yelling something that I never thought I would ever utter, something that most self-respecting males of my acquaintance would shutter to imagine ever ever saying…
But at the top of my lungs, at the very loudest I could possibly scream and still form words that were intelligible, I yelled out…
… as I said, words that I never in my wildest dreams thought would emerge from the mouth of yours truly…
“OKAY! ENOUGH! WE HAVE TO GO SHOPPING!”
I’ve been through things like this before. (I don’t want to admit how often.) And what I’ve learned from past experiences is: Sometimes you just have to take the bull by the horns. Even if you wind up in the muck.
(You know that I’m a big fan of the Cohn Brothers movie “The Big Lebowski.” One of the many good lines in it is when Sam Elliott wisely observes, “Sometimes you eat the bear. Sometimes it eats you.” Or something like that. I mean, I haven’t actually memorized the whole movie… Unlike “Dirty Dancing,” which I could probably recite word for word.
(Another like-minded saying that I once heard from a baseball player, vis-à-vis “King Kong”: “Some days you’re King Kong. Somedays you’re Fay Wray.”)
Anyway, things were starting to careen out of control with my charges, and I have enough experience with them to know that matters would probably not improve unless I did something drastic.
Each of my guys was trying to corner these 2 unfortunate journalism interns (or whatever they were) and tell them their life’s story, complete with every heartbreaking moment they could invent from the day they were born. So there were 8 howling canines with 8 rags-to-riches-and-fame stories to tell— none of which were even remotely true—and only 2 blindsided civilians armed only with one camera and one notepad, and this assault on the free press would continue until I figured out a way to interrupt things in a big way.
So I resorted to yelling something that I never thought I would ever utter, something that most self-respecting males of my acquaintance would shutter to imagine ever ever saying…
But at the top of my lungs, at the very loudest I could possibly scream and still form words that were intelligible, I yelled out…
… as I said, words that I never in my wildest dreams thought would emerge from the mouth of yours truly…
“OKAY! ENOUGH! WE HAVE TO GO SHOPPING!”
June 10, 2020
Boy, did that shut them up!
For at least 10 or 15 seconds, you could’ve heard a pin drop. Everybody—all 8 of the dogs, plus the two cub reporters—turned to me and just froze. Unbelieving. I mean, not a single one of my pals (meaning: the dogs) had ever… ever… heard me even HINT AT wanting to go shopping. I’m a guy. What would I shop for? Where would I want to go, to go shopping? A hardware store?
But that’s what I’d said. “We have to go shopping!”
So for a brief moment in time, I had them frozen solid in wonder. I had to take advantage.
Before anyone had the wit to wonder aloud, “What’s going on? Are you (John) okay? Like, in the head?” I had to get things moving in a different direction. As in: getting these 2 newspaper interns away from my 8 prima donna, pay-attention-to-me master-chef drooling-all-over-themselves-with-self-esteem canines and out the front door. Where they’d be safe.
You know how some people—quite a few, if you believe the stories—are afraid of dogs. But that’s mostly being afraid of being bitten, or maybe getting torn limb-from-limb by Dobermans and pit bulls. But with my guys, it’s a whole different danger. With them, you have to beware of getting charmed to death. Getting schmoozed and cooed over and maybe having them cook you a totally fabulous meal, before they POUNCE. Before you realize that they’re only using you… for whatever their purpose of the moment is.
Well, these 2 young newspaper people didn’t know the danger they were in, and only I could extricate them from the jaws of infinite flattery.
So before my guys could move a muscle, I rushed over to the 2 cub reporters, grabbed them, and half-dragged them out the front door.
And not a moment too soon. Cuz my 8 buddies were hot on our heels. I hadn’t even managed to cram the 2 young reporters back into their car before Butch, Maggie, and Fifi scampered around us, took up a position between us and the interns’ beat-up Honda SUV (one of those boxy olive-green things), and proceeded to lock us in their evil eyes. A showdown, 3-on-3, as it were, and the odds did not look good for the humans (meaning: me and the 2 interns).
Not that Fifi, Butch, and Maggie would ever have harmed us. They knew better than that. But they weren’t gonna let these 2 newspaper folks get away, either. Not that easily, or without a few more photographs, at the very least.
But I was not to be deterred, either. It was time for me…
… to assume a leadership role!
Boy, did that shut them up!
For at least 10 or 15 seconds, you could’ve heard a pin drop. Everybody—all 8 of the dogs, plus the two cub reporters—turned to me and just froze. Unbelieving. I mean, not a single one of my pals (meaning: the dogs) had ever… ever… heard me even HINT AT wanting to go shopping. I’m a guy. What would I shop for? Where would I want to go, to go shopping? A hardware store?
But that’s what I’d said. “We have to go shopping!”
So for a brief moment in time, I had them frozen solid in wonder. I had to take advantage.
Before anyone had the wit to wonder aloud, “What’s going on? Are you (John) okay? Like, in the head?” I had to get things moving in a different direction. As in: getting these 2 newspaper interns away from my 8 prima donna, pay-attention-to-me master-chef drooling-all-over-themselves-with-self-esteem canines and out the front door. Where they’d be safe.
You know how some people—quite a few, if you believe the stories—are afraid of dogs. But that’s mostly being afraid of being bitten, or maybe getting torn limb-from-limb by Dobermans and pit bulls. But with my guys, it’s a whole different danger. With them, you have to beware of getting charmed to death. Getting schmoozed and cooed over and maybe having them cook you a totally fabulous meal, before they POUNCE. Before you realize that they’re only using you… for whatever their purpose of the moment is.
Well, these 2 young newspaper people didn’t know the danger they were in, and only I could extricate them from the jaws of infinite flattery.
So before my guys could move a muscle, I rushed over to the 2 cub reporters, grabbed them, and half-dragged them out the front door.
And not a moment too soon. Cuz my 8 buddies were hot on our heels. I hadn’t even managed to cram the 2 young reporters back into their car before Butch, Maggie, and Fifi scampered around us, took up a position between us and the interns’ beat-up Honda SUV (one of those boxy olive-green things), and proceeded to lock us in their evil eyes. A showdown, 3-on-3, as it were, and the odds did not look good for the humans (meaning: me and the 2 interns).
Not that Fifi, Butch, and Maggie would ever have harmed us. They knew better than that. But they weren’t gonna let these 2 newspaper folks get away, either. Not that easily, or without a few more photographs, at the very least.
But I was not to be deterred, either. It was time for me…
… to assume a leadership role!
June 11, 2020
It was time for me to take charge.
I once saw a TV interview with (then-retired) baseball umpire Ron Luciano, who was a very funny guy (even when he was umpiring). And he was talking about the balk rule in baseball. There’s something like 45 different ways that a pitcher can balk, and almost nobody understands the rule very well. In Ron’s opinion, the players don’t understand hardly any of the rules.
At any rate, Ron said that he himself never understood the “intricacies” of the balk rule, and that he never once—himself—called a balk on a pitcher. Not once, in his whole career. But as soon as one of his fellow umpires called a balk, Ron said that he would immediately throw up his hands and start yelling, “Balk! Balk!” And then, before anyone else did anything, he’d start pointing at the various runners who happened to be on base, and point where each of them should go. (E.g., should the runner on first go to second base? Should the runner on third be allowed to go home and score? Should the guy on second base stay where he was?)
Ron said that he had no idea whether what he was telling the players to do was correct, but he said that, by saying it vociferously enough, everybody (including his fellow umpires) assumed that he knew what he was doing, so they all did precisely what he told them to do. Apparently, even the managers went along with whatever he said.
To that end, when I’d thrown up my own hands and yelled out, “We have to go shopping!” I had a brief moment in which everyone else stood there frozen—speechless (which is hard for my guys)—awaiting my further pronouncements. Waiting for more info, so to speak.
So what was I gonna do next?
Well, we really did have to shopping. I mean, we had enough food in the house, from our grocery expedition of the day before, to last us for days and days. But we did have to amass whatever supplies Suzie Snow Peas was going to need for her shopping-mall parking-lot cooking demonstration the following day.
I hadn’t even asked her what delicious culinary delights she planned on offering. I guess I’d (we’d) assumed that it’d be some sort of spring rolls. Cuz they’re easy (compared to, say, Peking Duck or Mongolian Beef), and they’d make good “finger food” to pass around on platters for the crowd. Which we’d assumed would be suitably immense.
But she hadn’t confirmed anything. For all I knew (no that I thought about it), she might have dreamed up something completely new. Something literally “totally exotic.” But even so, it’d have to be something where we could get the ingredients at an ordinary suburban grocery store. (I doubted that there was a Chinatown in the Tidewater area.)
But whatever she had in mind, we did really have to go to a grocery store, sometime today. So I had that going for me, by way of taking charge and issuing orders (or at least stating our plans).
And, being at heart a realist, I knew that I would still face some resistance from “the team” over the basic idea of having Suzie do the cooking demo SOLO. Even though we’d all agreed on it, the night before. Because now, as “show time” was approaching, and the chance to strut their stuff on stage dawned ever brighter to them, the other 7 master chefs amongst us couldn’t help but have their butts start to itch, their tails start to twitch, and their tongues start lolling about at the thought of they, themselves, being the one-and-only STAR OF THE SHOW. Which meant that any previous agreement, like the one that’d seemed so logical the night before, was gonna have to be jettisoned in favor of them (each, individually) being given the chance to SHINE. As in: like the brightest star ever…
How totally predictable.
These guys were such hams. I should’ve seen this coming from a million miles away. They were never gonna let this show just happen, without each of them trying to steal it. They’d brave a bed of burning coals for a shot at the limelight.
It was time for me to take charge.
I once saw a TV interview with (then-retired) baseball umpire Ron Luciano, who was a very funny guy (even when he was umpiring). And he was talking about the balk rule in baseball. There’s something like 45 different ways that a pitcher can balk, and almost nobody understands the rule very well. In Ron’s opinion, the players don’t understand hardly any of the rules.
At any rate, Ron said that he himself never understood the “intricacies” of the balk rule, and that he never once—himself—called a balk on a pitcher. Not once, in his whole career. But as soon as one of his fellow umpires called a balk, Ron said that he would immediately throw up his hands and start yelling, “Balk! Balk!” And then, before anyone else did anything, he’d start pointing at the various runners who happened to be on base, and point where each of them should go. (E.g., should the runner on first go to second base? Should the runner on third be allowed to go home and score? Should the guy on second base stay where he was?)
Ron said that he had no idea whether what he was telling the players to do was correct, but he said that, by saying it vociferously enough, everybody (including his fellow umpires) assumed that he knew what he was doing, so they all did precisely what he told them to do. Apparently, even the managers went along with whatever he said.
To that end, when I’d thrown up my own hands and yelled out, “We have to go shopping!” I had a brief moment in which everyone else stood there frozen—speechless (which is hard for my guys)—awaiting my further pronouncements. Waiting for more info, so to speak.
So what was I gonna do next?
Well, we really did have to shopping. I mean, we had enough food in the house, from our grocery expedition of the day before, to last us for days and days. But we did have to amass whatever supplies Suzie Snow Peas was going to need for her shopping-mall parking-lot cooking demonstration the following day.
I hadn’t even asked her what delicious culinary delights she planned on offering. I guess I’d (we’d) assumed that it’d be some sort of spring rolls. Cuz they’re easy (compared to, say, Peking Duck or Mongolian Beef), and they’d make good “finger food” to pass around on platters for the crowd. Which we’d assumed would be suitably immense.
But she hadn’t confirmed anything. For all I knew (no that I thought about it), she might have dreamed up something completely new. Something literally “totally exotic.” But even so, it’d have to be something where we could get the ingredients at an ordinary suburban grocery store. (I doubted that there was a Chinatown in the Tidewater area.)
But whatever she had in mind, we did really have to go to a grocery store, sometime today. So I had that going for me, by way of taking charge and issuing orders (or at least stating our plans).
And, being at heart a realist, I knew that I would still face some resistance from “the team” over the basic idea of having Suzie do the cooking demo SOLO. Even though we’d all agreed on it, the night before. Because now, as “show time” was approaching, and the chance to strut their stuff on stage dawned ever brighter to them, the other 7 master chefs amongst us couldn’t help but have their butts start to itch, their tails start to twitch, and their tongues start lolling about at the thought of they, themselves, being the one-and-only STAR OF THE SHOW. Which meant that any previous agreement, like the one that’d seemed so logical the night before, was gonna have to be jettisoned in favor of them (each, individually) being given the chance to SHINE. As in: like the brightest star ever…
How totally predictable.
These guys were such hams. I should’ve seen this coming from a million miles away. They were never gonna let this show just happen, without each of them trying to steal it. They’d brave a bed of burning coals for a shot at the limelight.
June 12, 2020
But it wasn’t for nothing that I’d earned all those “leadership” badges in Boy Scouts. (Okay, so I was never in the Boy Scouts. But I must’ve earned all those badges somewhere. Maybe it was from watching all the Indiana Jones movies.)
Quick as a flash, I spun around and pointed at Suzie.
“We’ve gotta get to the store!” I said to her. “Do you have your list?”
She gaped at me, then shrugged.
“Come on,” I half-exclaimed. Pointing to the 2 young newspaper interns, who’d been frozen in their tracks by the baleful glares of Fifi, Butch, and Maggie, I went on, “These guys are gonna show us where the store is.”
I motioned for the two newspaper-ites to skip around the Baleful Three (Fifi, Butch, and Maggie) and hop into their beat-up olive-green Honda SUV, while at the same time pointing at Butch and saying to him, “You’ve gotta come along. You’re our best shopper.”
Which was, of course, debatable, but it served the purpose of separating him from Fifi and Maggie, and enlisting him, unawares, on our side. Whatever. It worked. He dropped his menacing pose and scampered over to where Suzie and I were standing.
“Who’s driving?” he wanted to know. Butch always wants to drive. (But, then, so do all the rest of them. What’s so surprising is how seldom I get to drive.)
This time, I WAS going to drive. I don’t know why, but it seemed right. Probably, I guess, I unconsciously figured that the 2 young newspaper people would find having Butch or Suzie driving that king-size Tour Bus a bit hard to swallow.
So be it. But first, I had to assign tasks to everyone else. Just to keep them busy while I was gone.
It all happened so fast that I actually got away with it.
“Okay,” I said to them, keeping my voice strong just like I’d learned in leadership class, “Howie, you’re in charge of everybody till I get back, okay?” (Putting a German Shepherd in charge is usually a wise move. As opposed to putting a Terrier in charge, for example. Or a Poodle. Poodles are terrible in positions of authority… In case you’ve never noticed.)
“Everybody else…” I paused, looking at them all. “We need to get the house cleaned up a bit, get things sorted out for dinner. And…” (looking at Terry) “we really need to get all those leaves and branches out of the pool, in case our neighbors drop by again.”
I could just see Terry’s shoulders sag. At the thought of mucking out the pool, or of having to share it again with all those low-brow neighbors, I don’t know. Maybe both.
But he didn’t whine. You’ve gotta credit Terry: The guy loves never complains…. Well, almost never.
(Plus, it WAS mostly his fault that we’d wound up spending the night in the slammer, up in Baltimore. Don’t want to forget that.)
“Maggie,” I continued (in leadership mode), “do you think you could scramble up some dinner for us all? Whatever’s left over from last night?”
She nodded eagerly. (One thing about Maggie: Like most Labs, she’s always eager to please. And she’s a genius with leftovers.)
So that left Fifi, Mona Lassie, and Barnacle Bill. Well, I was NOT going to ask Fifi to do any laundry (or get wet, so helping Terry with the pool was out of the question, as well.) Maybe I could get her to…?
Heck, where were my leadership skills? I needed to DELEGATE.
So I turned to Howie and gave him a chummy pat on the back. Motioning to Fifi, Bill, and Mona Lassie, I smiled and said, “I’m sure you can find something for everybody to do.” I gave him a “meaningful” look and said, “I’m counting on you.”
And he dutifully nodded, accepting the important job I’d chosen him for.
And before anyone else could start bellyaching, I clapped my hands and grinned in satisfaction.
“Great. It’s always best when everyone can work together.”
But it wasn’t for nothing that I’d earned all those “leadership” badges in Boy Scouts. (Okay, so I was never in the Boy Scouts. But I must’ve earned all those badges somewhere. Maybe it was from watching all the Indiana Jones movies.)
Quick as a flash, I spun around and pointed at Suzie.
“We’ve gotta get to the store!” I said to her. “Do you have your list?”
She gaped at me, then shrugged.
“Come on,” I half-exclaimed. Pointing to the 2 young newspaper interns, who’d been frozen in their tracks by the baleful glares of Fifi, Butch, and Maggie, I went on, “These guys are gonna show us where the store is.”
I motioned for the two newspaper-ites to skip around the Baleful Three (Fifi, Butch, and Maggie) and hop into their beat-up olive-green Honda SUV, while at the same time pointing at Butch and saying to him, “You’ve gotta come along. You’re our best shopper.”
Which was, of course, debatable, but it served the purpose of separating him from Fifi and Maggie, and enlisting him, unawares, on our side. Whatever. It worked. He dropped his menacing pose and scampered over to where Suzie and I were standing.
“Who’s driving?” he wanted to know. Butch always wants to drive. (But, then, so do all the rest of them. What’s so surprising is how seldom I get to drive.)
This time, I WAS going to drive. I don’t know why, but it seemed right. Probably, I guess, I unconsciously figured that the 2 young newspaper people would find having Butch or Suzie driving that king-size Tour Bus a bit hard to swallow.
So be it. But first, I had to assign tasks to everyone else. Just to keep them busy while I was gone.
It all happened so fast that I actually got away with it.
“Okay,” I said to them, keeping my voice strong just like I’d learned in leadership class, “Howie, you’re in charge of everybody till I get back, okay?” (Putting a German Shepherd in charge is usually a wise move. As opposed to putting a Terrier in charge, for example. Or a Poodle. Poodles are terrible in positions of authority… In case you’ve never noticed.)
“Everybody else…” I paused, looking at them all. “We need to get the house cleaned up a bit, get things sorted out for dinner. And…” (looking at Terry) “we really need to get all those leaves and branches out of the pool, in case our neighbors drop by again.”
I could just see Terry’s shoulders sag. At the thought of mucking out the pool, or of having to share it again with all those low-brow neighbors, I don’t know. Maybe both.
But he didn’t whine. You’ve gotta credit Terry: The guy loves never complains…. Well, almost never.
(Plus, it WAS mostly his fault that we’d wound up spending the night in the slammer, up in Baltimore. Don’t want to forget that.)
“Maggie,” I continued (in leadership mode), “do you think you could scramble up some dinner for us all? Whatever’s left over from last night?”
She nodded eagerly. (One thing about Maggie: Like most Labs, she’s always eager to please. And she’s a genius with leftovers.)
So that left Fifi, Mona Lassie, and Barnacle Bill. Well, I was NOT going to ask Fifi to do any laundry (or get wet, so helping Terry with the pool was out of the question, as well.) Maybe I could get her to…?
Heck, where were my leadership skills? I needed to DELEGATE.
So I turned to Howie and gave him a chummy pat on the back. Motioning to Fifi, Bill, and Mona Lassie, I smiled and said, “I’m sure you can find something for everybody to do.” I gave him a “meaningful” look and said, “I’m counting on you.”
And he dutifully nodded, accepting the important job I’d chosen him for.
And before anyone else could start bellyaching, I clapped my hands and grinned in satisfaction.
“Great. It’s always best when everyone can work together.”
June 15, 2020
“So are you saying that you sometimes feel like we don’t work together?” asked Butch, frowning, as he sat riding shotgun in the Tour Bus. (Bulldogs are good at frowning.)
I’ve been with all 8 of these guys for quite a while now (I hesitate to say for exactly how long, cuz we seldom speak of “the early days”), so I knew that I could be honest with him.
“Of course,” I answered, as if this was the easiest thing in the world to admit to. “We’re family. Families are always squabbling. Well, not always, but sometimes. It’s normal.”
He nodded at that. His family, certainly, had been like that. Or at least that’s the way he’d always portrayed it. I mean, think of what it must’ve been like: 8 bulldog pups with a father like Clarence “Bull” Waddles. To hear Butch tell it, it was hard to guess which was worse: when his Dad was home, and when he was out on the road. Either way, I guess, Butch had to fight for whatever scraps he got.
Not so, of course, with Suzie. You know the Chinese: Only one child per family. So she was always the center of attention, and she probably always got what she wanted.
So it was easy for her to think of family as one big bed of “Harmony.” It was only herself, her parents, and her beloved Grandmother. Her Ah Paw. (She’s big on that word: “Harmony.” Which is fine, of course. In a cosmic sense. Or in a culinary sense. As in: making all of your ingredients blend with each other, rather than pushing and shoving each other to stand out, to be the star… But in my experience, it’s as often as not a dog-eat-dog world out there.)
“Have you got the list?” I asked Suzie, trying to change the subject. To which I added, to Butch, “Don’t lose sight of those guys. I have no idea where we’re going.”
(Meaning: the newspaper people. They were leading us to the grocery store. I had no idea where it was.)
To Suzie, again: “Do you have the list?”
A moment of silence, from the back of the bus, and then she said, “No. But I’ve got it pretty much in my head.”
Great.
Butch hopped up on his seat and said, “They’re turning up there at the stop light.”
I peered ahead. “Okay. I got it. Thanks.” And then to Suzie, “You’ve got it in your head?”
“Well, I don’t even know how many people we’re supposed to be serving, so I guess we’ll have to play it by ear. Maybe see if they’ve got anything on “special” at the grocery.”
This, I had to admit, was my fault. I should’ve pinned Allison down on the details, a bit more. (You remember Allsion? Deputy Rick’s wife? The TV station manager? The one whose idea this all was. Heck, I didn’t even know where this shopping mall was. The one we were going to be doing this cooking demonstration at. I should’ve asked her how many mouths she was expecting us to feed. My guys were good. They were true pros. But even true pros couldn’t pull off a loaves-and-fishes stunt.)
Maybe I should call her. Maybe, when we got to the store…
“I lost ’em.” from Butch.
“What?” from me.
“I lost ’em.” again from Butch.
“What do you mean, you lost them?” I demanded. (I can get real frustrated real quick, behind the wheel of the Tour Bus. Which is probably why I try not to do much of the driving.) “That was your job: to keep them in sight.”
“I know,” Butch admitted, slumping down in his seat. “But I got lost in thought.”
I pulled over to the side of the road. “What were you thinking about?”
“I was thinking that, if I’d stayed back at the house… Well, I bet by now everybody’s got all the chores done, and they’re all having a good time in the pool.”
“And you could be there, too,” I empathized.
“Yeah,” Butch admitted glumly. “That’s kinda what I was thinking. I really love to swim.”
“So are you saying that you sometimes feel like we don’t work together?” asked Butch, frowning, as he sat riding shotgun in the Tour Bus. (Bulldogs are good at frowning.)
I’ve been with all 8 of these guys for quite a while now (I hesitate to say for exactly how long, cuz we seldom speak of “the early days”), so I knew that I could be honest with him.
“Of course,” I answered, as if this was the easiest thing in the world to admit to. “We’re family. Families are always squabbling. Well, not always, but sometimes. It’s normal.”
He nodded at that. His family, certainly, had been like that. Or at least that’s the way he’d always portrayed it. I mean, think of what it must’ve been like: 8 bulldog pups with a father like Clarence “Bull” Waddles. To hear Butch tell it, it was hard to guess which was worse: when his Dad was home, and when he was out on the road. Either way, I guess, Butch had to fight for whatever scraps he got.
Not so, of course, with Suzie. You know the Chinese: Only one child per family. So she was always the center of attention, and she probably always got what she wanted.
So it was easy for her to think of family as one big bed of “Harmony.” It was only herself, her parents, and her beloved Grandmother. Her Ah Paw. (She’s big on that word: “Harmony.” Which is fine, of course. In a cosmic sense. Or in a culinary sense. As in: making all of your ingredients blend with each other, rather than pushing and shoving each other to stand out, to be the star… But in my experience, it’s as often as not a dog-eat-dog world out there.)
“Have you got the list?” I asked Suzie, trying to change the subject. To which I added, to Butch, “Don’t lose sight of those guys. I have no idea where we’re going.”
(Meaning: the newspaper people. They were leading us to the grocery store. I had no idea where it was.)
To Suzie, again: “Do you have the list?”
A moment of silence, from the back of the bus, and then she said, “No. But I’ve got it pretty much in my head.”
Great.
Butch hopped up on his seat and said, “They’re turning up there at the stop light.”
I peered ahead. “Okay. I got it. Thanks.” And then to Suzie, “You’ve got it in your head?”
“Well, I don’t even know how many people we’re supposed to be serving, so I guess we’ll have to play it by ear. Maybe see if they’ve got anything on “special” at the grocery.”
This, I had to admit, was my fault. I should’ve pinned Allison down on the details, a bit more. (You remember Allsion? Deputy Rick’s wife? The TV station manager? The one whose idea this all was. Heck, I didn’t even know where this shopping mall was. The one we were going to be doing this cooking demonstration at. I should’ve asked her how many mouths she was expecting us to feed. My guys were good. They were true pros. But even true pros couldn’t pull off a loaves-and-fishes stunt.)
Maybe I should call her. Maybe, when we got to the store…
“I lost ’em.” from Butch.
“What?” from me.
“I lost ’em.” again from Butch.
“What do you mean, you lost them?” I demanded. (I can get real frustrated real quick, behind the wheel of the Tour Bus. Which is probably why I try not to do much of the driving.) “That was your job: to keep them in sight.”
“I know,” Butch admitted, slumping down in his seat. “But I got lost in thought.”
I pulled over to the side of the road. “What were you thinking about?”
“I was thinking that, if I’d stayed back at the house… Well, I bet by now everybody’s got all the chores done, and they’re all having a good time in the pool.”
“And you could be there, too,” I empathized.
“Yeah,” Butch admitted glumly. “That’s kinda what I was thinking. I really love to swim.”
June 16, 2020
“JUST JOKING!” Butch suddenly yelled. He popped up in his seat (he was riding shotgun) and started merrily barking and pointing his mug up the street and to the left.
“It’s right over there!” he laughed. And sure enough, not half a block up, on the other side of the street, there was the grocery store parking lot.
Suzie started clapping her paws, laughing, and bouncing up and down in the back seat.
Very funny. Here I’d thought I’d lost our “tour guides,” the 2 interns from the newspaper who’d been showing us the way, and there they were, sitting in their car in the parking lot, wondering what had become of us.
Well, I didn’t need getting the joke rubbed in, so I ignored the whole what-took-you-so-long? we-thought-you-were-right-behind-us-the-whole-way issue, and thanked them for their help and their patience.
I told them that they certainly didn’t need to come inside with us. They’d already done enough. And, together with Butch and Suzie, I thanked them for driving all the way to our (self-invited) house, and doing all those interviews with all of us, and taking all those pictures which we were sure would turn out looking really really good, and how we hoped we’d be seeing a big spread in tomorrow morning’s edition of their paper…
Cuz that’s what it had been all about: getting publicity for tomorrow’s shopping-mall parking-lot cooking demonstration. Correction: SUZIE’S shopping-mall parking-lot cooking demonstration.
Which meant that Butch wasn’t really going to have anything to do with it. Aside from “support.” Which was all of us. But it was really going to be Suzie’s gig.
So we may as well get ourselves (meaning: Suzie and me) inside and start shopping. For whatever she had in mind.
I was really hoping that Deputy Rick’s wife Allison might call me back and give me some idea of approximately how many people we should expect to show up for this extravaganza. I mean: Were we talking 100 people, or 1000?
Either way, we didn’t need Butch coming inside with us and just creating more confusion.
(I confess: I was slightly miffed at him for pulling that gag on me. As I’ve said, I don’t really like driving the Tour Bus. I enjoy it even less when I don’t know where I’m going. And I like it even less than that, when I think that I’m totally lost. Which is how I’d felt, 10 minutes before, parked on the side of the road with Butch telling me that he’d lost our “guides” because he’d been dreaming of swimming in a nice cool swimming pool.)
So when we (Suzie and I) finally bid farewell to our 2 young newspaper friends (after assuring them that they’d be most welcome at our shopping-mall parking-lot event the next day, and also that Suzie would cook up something extra special just for them), I found a group of teenagers skateboarding around the vast grocery-store parking lot and gave them 10 bucks to let Butch join them for a while. (To be honest: to take him off of my hands while Suzie and I were in the grocery store.)
So he wasn’t getting a swim in a swimming pool anytime soon, but at least he could get some boarding in. He’s always enjoyed that, too. (And hopefully he wouldn’t get hit by a car. It was a parking lot, after all.)
“JUST JOKING!” Butch suddenly yelled. He popped up in his seat (he was riding shotgun) and started merrily barking and pointing his mug up the street and to the left.
“It’s right over there!” he laughed. And sure enough, not half a block up, on the other side of the street, there was the grocery store parking lot.
Suzie started clapping her paws, laughing, and bouncing up and down in the back seat.
Very funny. Here I’d thought I’d lost our “tour guides,” the 2 interns from the newspaper who’d been showing us the way, and there they were, sitting in their car in the parking lot, wondering what had become of us.
Well, I didn’t need getting the joke rubbed in, so I ignored the whole what-took-you-so-long? we-thought-you-were-right-behind-us-the-whole-way issue, and thanked them for their help and their patience.
I told them that they certainly didn’t need to come inside with us. They’d already done enough. And, together with Butch and Suzie, I thanked them for driving all the way to our (self-invited) house, and doing all those interviews with all of us, and taking all those pictures which we were sure would turn out looking really really good, and how we hoped we’d be seeing a big spread in tomorrow morning’s edition of their paper…
Cuz that’s what it had been all about: getting publicity for tomorrow’s shopping-mall parking-lot cooking demonstration. Correction: SUZIE’S shopping-mall parking-lot cooking demonstration.
Which meant that Butch wasn’t really going to have anything to do with it. Aside from “support.” Which was all of us. But it was really going to be Suzie’s gig.
So we may as well get ourselves (meaning: Suzie and me) inside and start shopping. For whatever she had in mind.
I was really hoping that Deputy Rick’s wife Allison might call me back and give me some idea of approximately how many people we should expect to show up for this extravaganza. I mean: Were we talking 100 people, or 1000?
Either way, we didn’t need Butch coming inside with us and just creating more confusion.
(I confess: I was slightly miffed at him for pulling that gag on me. As I’ve said, I don’t really like driving the Tour Bus. I enjoy it even less when I don’t know where I’m going. And I like it even less than that, when I think that I’m totally lost. Which is how I’d felt, 10 minutes before, parked on the side of the road with Butch telling me that he’d lost our “guides” because he’d been dreaming of swimming in a nice cool swimming pool.)
So when we (Suzie and I) finally bid farewell to our 2 young newspaper friends (after assuring them that they’d be most welcome at our shopping-mall parking-lot event the next day, and also that Suzie would cook up something extra special just for them), I found a group of teenagers skateboarding around the vast grocery-store parking lot and gave them 10 bucks to let Butch join them for a while. (To be honest: to take him off of my hands while Suzie and I were in the grocery store.)
So he wasn’t getting a swim in a swimming pool anytime soon, but at least he could get some boarding in. He’s always enjoyed that, too. (And hopefully he wouldn’t get hit by a car. It was a parking lot, after all.)
June 17, 2020
As soon as I posted yesterday’s installment, I vowed to not put yet another picture of Butch on the cover of today’s episode. My guys have always been really touchy about somebody getting more attention than somebody else, and it seems like I’ve been letting Butch’s mug “dominate the news” for the past few days. So hopefully that comes to an end today.
Actually, today’s reporting is all about Suzie. Our own Suzie Snow Peas.
It was her show, after all. We’d already decided, for any number of reasons, that the next day’s cooking demonstration would best be done by her. Solo. And she hadn’t hesitated in accepting. (None of my guys would ever have hesitated. Get real. They’re showmen (-women). Attention is attention, the more the better.)
So she and I left Butch to cavort about the grocery-store parking lot with a group of reasonably responsible teenage skateboarders (responsible, meaning: they probably wouldn’t let him get hit by a car. He does, however, exude a pretty low-to-the-ground profile, so there’s always a chance that somebody driving a Escalade might never notice him.)
Anyway, Suzie and I had shopping to do. We caught a bit of luck, because as soon as we walked into the grocery, my cell phone rang and it was Allison, Deputy Rick’s wife, the TV station manager who’d set up this whole event. She immediately directed us, over the phone, to find the store manager and then introduce ourselves.
Which we promptly did, and he proved to be “courtesy personified” the whole time we were in his store.
Suzie, as always, was “charm personified.” She always is. I assume she got that from her grandmother, her Ah Paw. (It’s maybe a bit cultural, too, but for all that, it’s perfectly genuine.)
No sooner had we introduced ourselves than the store manager took it upon himself to assign a lieutenant to accompany us around the store and take notes on precisely what Suzie was going to need the following day, and in what quantities. (Miraculously, Allison had arranged with the store manager to not only bill everything to her TV station—when you would’ve thought that maybe the new “major retailer” would be footing the bill—you know, the store that was having the grand opening tomorrow)-- but also to have the store deliver everything to the shopping-mall parking-lot location tomorrow morning so that Suzie and I wouldn’t have to take it all home tonight and keep it frozen/refrigerated until tomorrow.
I still didn’t know what exactly Suzie had in mind, as far as cooking went, but if there’s one thing I can trust my guys about, it’s their professionalism.
Suzie talked on the phone to Allison for a while. I presume they were talking about how many mouths Suzie might be expected to feed, plus what kind of cooking apparatus Allison was going to be able to provide. Then Suzie hung up the phone and went to work.
She wandered around and around the store, lap after lap, before she managed to decide on anything. Then she paused, took a deep breath, and turning to the sotre clerk whom the manager had assigned to us, she went into a flurry of orders and ingredients and amounts that gushed out so fast, I didn’t think the clerk was going to be able to write it all down.
But eventually Suzie was satisfied, and she and the store clerk went over his (multi-page) list again. Suzie added a few extra items, the most curious (for me): 1000 popsicle sticks.
I assumed she knew what she was doing.
After all that, we returned to the store manager’s office and expressed our most effusive thanks. Suzie is really good at this. We were a good 15 minutes doing the bowing and smiling and praising his ancestors and offering great hopes for his children (and his children’s futures), and all but demanding that he and all of his extended family stop by our “humble demonstration” tomorrow—at the shopping mall—at which they would of course be our most-honored guests…
It was way more than 15 minutes, actually, but what the heck. We didn’t have to spend a dime, and it was all going to be delivered.
(Part of the more-than-15-minutes was due to me having to run back to the Tour Bus and grab a copy of Suzie’s book, so she could present it to the store manager as a token of our appreciation. And, of course, autograph and inscribe it for him…. Of course…. Like I always say, my guys never miss a chance to self-promote.)
And with that, we wafted serenely down the aisles and out the front door, Suzie acting every bit the “royal” (with me trailing behind, her loyal chamberlain).
I never mind that part. They’re all great at acting like the TV royalty they are.
As soon as I posted yesterday’s installment, I vowed to not put yet another picture of Butch on the cover of today’s episode. My guys have always been really touchy about somebody getting more attention than somebody else, and it seems like I’ve been letting Butch’s mug “dominate the news” for the past few days. So hopefully that comes to an end today.
Actually, today’s reporting is all about Suzie. Our own Suzie Snow Peas.
It was her show, after all. We’d already decided, for any number of reasons, that the next day’s cooking demonstration would best be done by her. Solo. And she hadn’t hesitated in accepting. (None of my guys would ever have hesitated. Get real. They’re showmen (-women). Attention is attention, the more the better.)
So she and I left Butch to cavort about the grocery-store parking lot with a group of reasonably responsible teenage skateboarders (responsible, meaning: they probably wouldn’t let him get hit by a car. He does, however, exude a pretty low-to-the-ground profile, so there’s always a chance that somebody driving a Escalade might never notice him.)
Anyway, Suzie and I had shopping to do. We caught a bit of luck, because as soon as we walked into the grocery, my cell phone rang and it was Allison, Deputy Rick’s wife, the TV station manager who’d set up this whole event. She immediately directed us, over the phone, to find the store manager and then introduce ourselves.
Which we promptly did, and he proved to be “courtesy personified” the whole time we were in his store.
Suzie, as always, was “charm personified.” She always is. I assume she got that from her grandmother, her Ah Paw. (It’s maybe a bit cultural, too, but for all that, it’s perfectly genuine.)
No sooner had we introduced ourselves than the store manager took it upon himself to assign a lieutenant to accompany us around the store and take notes on precisely what Suzie was going to need the following day, and in what quantities. (Miraculously, Allison had arranged with the store manager to not only bill everything to her TV station—when you would’ve thought that maybe the new “major retailer” would be footing the bill—you know, the store that was having the grand opening tomorrow)-- but also to have the store deliver everything to the shopping-mall parking-lot location tomorrow morning so that Suzie and I wouldn’t have to take it all home tonight and keep it frozen/refrigerated until tomorrow.
I still didn’t know what exactly Suzie had in mind, as far as cooking went, but if there’s one thing I can trust my guys about, it’s their professionalism.
Suzie talked on the phone to Allison for a while. I presume they were talking about how many mouths Suzie might be expected to feed, plus what kind of cooking apparatus Allison was going to be able to provide. Then Suzie hung up the phone and went to work.
She wandered around and around the store, lap after lap, before she managed to decide on anything. Then she paused, took a deep breath, and turning to the sotre clerk whom the manager had assigned to us, she went into a flurry of orders and ingredients and amounts that gushed out so fast, I didn’t think the clerk was going to be able to write it all down.
But eventually Suzie was satisfied, and she and the store clerk went over his (multi-page) list again. Suzie added a few extra items, the most curious (for me): 1000 popsicle sticks.
I assumed she knew what she was doing.
After all that, we returned to the store manager’s office and expressed our most effusive thanks. Suzie is really good at this. We were a good 15 minutes doing the bowing and smiling and praising his ancestors and offering great hopes for his children (and his children’s futures), and all but demanding that he and all of his extended family stop by our “humble demonstration” tomorrow—at the shopping mall—at which they would of course be our most-honored guests…
It was way more than 15 minutes, actually, but what the heck. We didn’t have to spend a dime, and it was all going to be delivered.
(Part of the more-than-15-minutes was due to me having to run back to the Tour Bus and grab a copy of Suzie’s book, so she could present it to the store manager as a token of our appreciation. And, of course, autograph and inscribe it for him…. Of course…. Like I always say, my guys never miss a chance to self-promote.)
And with that, we wafted serenely down the aisles and out the front door, Suzie acting every bit the “royal” (with me trailing behind, her loyal chamberlain).
I never mind that part. They’re all great at acting like the TV royalty they are.
June 18, 2020Butch might have helped me find our way back to “the mansion,” if he hadn’t been so tired from his skateboarding in the parking lot (while Suzie and I did the shopping).
And to be fair, I think he was a bit overwhelmed by a near-death experience he had while, according to him, innocently dodging between a pickup truck and a store employee who was wheeling a string of grocery carts back to the store. To hear him tell it, it was something out of Indiana Jones. One of the teenagers made it sound not quite so dramatic. (“It’s the near-misses that usually get us in trouble. And it’s usually some guy in a truck… Come to think of it, it’s always some guy in a truck.)
So on the way back “home,” Butch decided to lay down in the back of the Tour Bus and “decompress.” I think he’d just gotten really scared. Which was understandable. He’s not real used to metropolitan areas. Just a country boy, at heart. Which was beating much faster than it should have. So I really did want to get him “home” and let him relax. Jump in that swimming pool he seemed to love so much.
But like I said, he could’ve helped out with the directions, getting us back to our temporary home-away-from-home.
You have to realize, our Tour Bus is not some compact car. Or even your standard-issue school bus. Our Tour Bus is BIG. Mondo big. And sure, it’s got power steering and all that, but driving it still takes a very large amount of concentration. (It’s no wonder that professional tour-bus drivers, the ones who drive Dolly Parton and Willy Nelson around, get some serious professional training. Which I, certainly, did not have. Much less the dogs. As much as they enjoyed—nay, relished—their individual turns behind the wheel, they mostly relied on luck rather than expertise to get them through traffic and dicey parking situations.)
So, needless to say, left to my own devices (because Suzie is never any good at helping with directions. She’s mostly a travel-by-train sorta gal) and having enough trouble not side-swiping any innocent-bystander vehicles in my path, we managed to completely lost on about 5 minutes.
And then we got lost a second time. And then, briefly, a third time.
But eventually (obviously) we found our way “home.”
And were we ever surprised, when we got there! (It’s always something, traveling with these guys.)
You might remember: Before we left the house to go to the grocery store, I’d put Howie (at least nominally) in charge of things. And I’d sort-of tried to delegate some chores to everybody, so that the mess we were inevitably making—what with 8 hyper-active dogs and one rather slow-moving human-- wouldn’t get totally out-of-hand.
But never would I have believed, when Butch and Suzie and I wheeled the Tour Bus in to the driveway, that the whole place would’ve been cleaned, and double-cleaned, and detailed to shortest blade of grass! The semi-falling-apart mansion looked virtually brand-new. The house itself, the lawn, the swimming pool area, everything! It looked like the owners (whom, you know, we’d never met-- whose name we didn’t even know) had hired a professional house-cleaning crew and paid them a zillion dollars to ready the place for a real-estate showing. I was half-ashamed to park our road-dirty Tour Bus in the driveway, in case they had a real-estate photographer on the way to take pictures.
I found out later that Howie had pulled a Huck Finn on a bunch of the neighboring mutts, and talked them into helping. Correction: into helping PLUS. Like: on steroids.
From a real-estate picture-perfect standpoint, the only thing mildly out-of-place were the 20 or so dogs laying sound asleep all over the place. Howie must’ve worked them hard!
(There was even an exhausted brown bear lying there, dead to the world. I wasn’t even gonna ask.)
And to be fair, I think he was a bit overwhelmed by a near-death experience he had while, according to him, innocently dodging between a pickup truck and a store employee who was wheeling a string of grocery carts back to the store. To hear him tell it, it was something out of Indiana Jones. One of the teenagers made it sound not quite so dramatic. (“It’s the near-misses that usually get us in trouble. And it’s usually some guy in a truck… Come to think of it, it’s always some guy in a truck.)
So on the way back “home,” Butch decided to lay down in the back of the Tour Bus and “decompress.” I think he’d just gotten really scared. Which was understandable. He’s not real used to metropolitan areas. Just a country boy, at heart. Which was beating much faster than it should have. So I really did want to get him “home” and let him relax. Jump in that swimming pool he seemed to love so much.
But like I said, he could’ve helped out with the directions, getting us back to our temporary home-away-from-home.
You have to realize, our Tour Bus is not some compact car. Or even your standard-issue school bus. Our Tour Bus is BIG. Mondo big. And sure, it’s got power steering and all that, but driving it still takes a very large amount of concentration. (It’s no wonder that professional tour-bus drivers, the ones who drive Dolly Parton and Willy Nelson around, get some serious professional training. Which I, certainly, did not have. Much less the dogs. As much as they enjoyed—nay, relished—their individual turns behind the wheel, they mostly relied on luck rather than expertise to get them through traffic and dicey parking situations.)
So, needless to say, left to my own devices (because Suzie is never any good at helping with directions. She’s mostly a travel-by-train sorta gal) and having enough trouble not side-swiping any innocent-bystander vehicles in my path, we managed to completely lost on about 5 minutes.
And then we got lost a second time. And then, briefly, a third time.
But eventually (obviously) we found our way “home.”
And were we ever surprised, when we got there! (It’s always something, traveling with these guys.)
You might remember: Before we left the house to go to the grocery store, I’d put Howie (at least nominally) in charge of things. And I’d sort-of tried to delegate some chores to everybody, so that the mess we were inevitably making—what with 8 hyper-active dogs and one rather slow-moving human-- wouldn’t get totally out-of-hand.
But never would I have believed, when Butch and Suzie and I wheeled the Tour Bus in to the driveway, that the whole place would’ve been cleaned, and double-cleaned, and detailed to shortest blade of grass! The semi-falling-apart mansion looked virtually brand-new. The house itself, the lawn, the swimming pool area, everything! It looked like the owners (whom, you know, we’d never met-- whose name we didn’t even know) had hired a professional house-cleaning crew and paid them a zillion dollars to ready the place for a real-estate showing. I was half-ashamed to park our road-dirty Tour Bus in the driveway, in case they had a real-estate photographer on the way to take pictures.
I found out later that Howie had pulled a Huck Finn on a bunch of the neighboring mutts, and talked them into helping. Correction: into helping PLUS. Like: on steroids.
From a real-estate picture-perfect standpoint, the only thing mildly out-of-place were the 20 or so dogs laying sound asleep all over the place. Howie must’ve worked them hard!
(There was even an exhausted brown bear lying there, dead to the world. I wasn’t even gonna ask.)
June 19, 2020
I saw a movie once in film class, purportedly the first full-length science-fiction movie ever made. Set in Paris in the 1920’s. A mad scientist invents a “sleep ray” and puts every single person in Paris asleep. Apparently for a long time. An “aeroplane” from Marseilles lands at Orly, and the passengers and the pilot find everyone at the “aerodrome” sound asleep. So they hop into an empty taxi and drive into town, where they find the only individual who hadn’t fallen asleep was the night watchman who lived high atop the Eiffel Tower. The plot thickens when a love interest develops between a girl passenger and the pilot (as I recall), and then the group discovers the mad scientist and also discover that he’s the girl’s father. Naturally.
Anyway, this little troupe sauntered around Paris, skirting one sleeping body after another, and that’s pretty much how Suzie, Butch, and I felt as we walked around the grounds of the “mansion.”
“Maybe they were all drugged,” suggested Butch.
“You don’t think Howie poisoned everybody, do you?” asked Suzie, only half joking. Howie has a way of “experimenting” with dangerous substances. (You’ve read his book, right? Risky Dishes for Rescue Dogs. Chock-full of edibles no half-intelligent dog should touch. Just to go alphabetically: avocados, alcohol, baking powder, baking soda, caffeine drinks, chocolate… You get the idea.)
“More likely,” I said, aiming for sarcasm, “it was aliens. They landed in the back yard, cleaned up the whole place—“
“I think they even repainted the shutters,” pointed out Butch.
“—and then zapped our friends with their deadly sleep ray. I’ve seen this movie before. I just don’t remember what the antidote was.”
“Maybe they’re just all taking a nap,” Suzie offered.
To which I shook my head in agreement. “No doubt, you’re right. A well-deserved nap, from the looks of things… See all those bags of trash they collected? We may as well throw them in the bus, get them out of sight, in case this really was a pre-real-estate-showing clean-up job.”
So the three of us lugged a couple dozen big trash bags onto the Tour Bus, along with three big barrels of recyclable cans and bottles.
Then we went inside, which was so far beyond spotless that I took my shoes off without even realizing it. The place not only was immaculate, it looked like maybe an interior decorator with a magic wand had been at work. I hardly recognized the place. (And the killer was the kitchen. You know, with 8 world-class chefs in our entourage, kitchens in particular take a beating. Well, this kitchen could’ve hosted a TV cooking class, right then and there. It would’ve been the “before” in a “before-and-after” spread in “Architectural Digest.” I peeked in the Sub-Zero, and it couldn’t have been cleaner. Same thing with the Viking stove top and the oven.)
Which is when I started getting suspicious. My guys, if you recall, are cooking prima-donnas. Prima donnas par excellence. They are not known for their janitorial skills.
So what gave?
I saw a movie once in film class, purportedly the first full-length science-fiction movie ever made. Set in Paris in the 1920’s. A mad scientist invents a “sleep ray” and puts every single person in Paris asleep. Apparently for a long time. An “aeroplane” from Marseilles lands at Orly, and the passengers and the pilot find everyone at the “aerodrome” sound asleep. So they hop into an empty taxi and drive into town, where they find the only individual who hadn’t fallen asleep was the night watchman who lived high atop the Eiffel Tower. The plot thickens when a love interest develops between a girl passenger and the pilot (as I recall), and then the group discovers the mad scientist and also discover that he’s the girl’s father. Naturally.
Anyway, this little troupe sauntered around Paris, skirting one sleeping body after another, and that’s pretty much how Suzie, Butch, and I felt as we walked around the grounds of the “mansion.”
“Maybe they were all drugged,” suggested Butch.
“You don’t think Howie poisoned everybody, do you?” asked Suzie, only half joking. Howie has a way of “experimenting” with dangerous substances. (You’ve read his book, right? Risky Dishes for Rescue Dogs. Chock-full of edibles no half-intelligent dog should touch. Just to go alphabetically: avocados, alcohol, baking powder, baking soda, caffeine drinks, chocolate… You get the idea.)
“More likely,” I said, aiming for sarcasm, “it was aliens. They landed in the back yard, cleaned up the whole place—“
“I think they even repainted the shutters,” pointed out Butch.
“—and then zapped our friends with their deadly sleep ray. I’ve seen this movie before. I just don’t remember what the antidote was.”
“Maybe they’re just all taking a nap,” Suzie offered.
To which I shook my head in agreement. “No doubt, you’re right. A well-deserved nap, from the looks of things… See all those bags of trash they collected? We may as well throw them in the bus, get them out of sight, in case this really was a pre-real-estate-showing clean-up job.”
So the three of us lugged a couple dozen big trash bags onto the Tour Bus, along with three big barrels of recyclable cans and bottles.
Then we went inside, which was so far beyond spotless that I took my shoes off without even realizing it. The place not only was immaculate, it looked like maybe an interior decorator with a magic wand had been at work. I hardly recognized the place. (And the killer was the kitchen. You know, with 8 world-class chefs in our entourage, kitchens in particular take a beating. Well, this kitchen could’ve hosted a TV cooking class, right then and there. It would’ve been the “before” in a “before-and-after” spread in “Architectural Digest.” I peeked in the Sub-Zero, and it couldn’t have been cleaner. Same thing with the Viking stove top and the oven.)
Which is when I started getting suspicious. My guys, if you recall, are cooking prima-donnas. Prima donnas par excellence. They are not known for their janitorial skills.
So what gave?
June 22, 2020
In those great Raymond Chandler stories, his hero Phillip Marlowe would’ve said, “No one was talking.”
In Marlowe’s case, of course, that’s because they were all dead.
In our case, everyone was merely (merely) sound asleep. Everyone. My guys, the neighborhood dogs, that bear over by the woodpile, the squirrels and chipmunks, and probably even the monsters out there in the swamp, out back. It was eerily quiet. (is that a word? Eerily?)
Whatever. It was super-quiet. But just like Marlowe, I needed answers.
Well, I’d left Howie in charge, so I figured that I’d start with him.
Have you ever tried to wake a fully-grown German Shepherd, when he doesn’t want to be woken? It isn’t easy. Especially when he isn’t hungry. Which, judging by all the trash that Butch, Suzie, and I had hauled over and into the Tour Bus, was a good bet. I think, while we’d been gone, Howie et al. had eaten enough to last them a 25-mile hike. (Not that I was complaining. We’d bought plenty of food at the grocery store, the night before. You know Napoleon’s saying: “An army marches on its belly.” Or something like that.)
After kicking Howie a few times (gently, with my toe) and getting absolutely zero response, I decided to try waking Maggie up instead. Being a Lab, she’s almost always up for a run. (Assuming there’s no food around to distract her.)
And I got no response from her, either. Not even a dream-sodden snort.
Maybe they had been drugged. Or gassed. Or… got some serious food poisoning. I shuddered to think. The irony! 8 master chefs, succumbing to coma-inducing food poisoning! Boy, would that set the Internet on fire!
And then, over by the swimming pool, I heard Barnacle Bill perk up. Well, not exactly perk up. He started to moan, real low and drawn-out. I thought I heard him muttering, something about “Put your backs into those holystones! The Commodore won’t be happy!” Or something like that. He’s been known to have shipwreck nightmares, so maybe this was the scowling Captain Bligh inspection variation.
At any rate, he was alive. More or less.
He stood up unsteadily and looked around. When my face came into focus and he realized that it was me, he shivered like his ship had just grounded on a reef, then let out a huge sigh of relief.
“Oh, thank god it’s just you,” he gasped, letting out another huge sigh.
“Yeah, it’s just me,” I agreed. “Who did you think it might be?”
He sank back on his haunches, looking sad and bone-tired. “Nobody, really. I mean…”
He looked around the yard, and perked up a bit. “We got the place cleaned up pretty good, don’t you think?” he asked me.
“Yeah, it looks great. Did you re-paint the shutters.”
He nodded his head. “That’s one thing you learn, when you spend your life at sea. A new coat of paint always makes everything look better… You know, I’ve never been there, but I bet the house looks almost as good as that palace they have over there in India. The Taj Mahal, I think they call it.”
“The Taj Mahal doesn’t have shutters,” I pointed out. “And if it did, I don’t think they would’ve painted them fire-engine red and emerald green.”
“And black,” Barnacle Bill added.
“And black,” I nodded. “Which makes the house look like a DisneyWorld pirate ship.”
“Only on land.”
“Agreed. On land. Definitely.”
In those great Raymond Chandler stories, his hero Phillip Marlowe would’ve said, “No one was talking.”
In Marlowe’s case, of course, that’s because they were all dead.
In our case, everyone was merely (merely) sound asleep. Everyone. My guys, the neighborhood dogs, that bear over by the woodpile, the squirrels and chipmunks, and probably even the monsters out there in the swamp, out back. It was eerily quiet. (is that a word? Eerily?)
Whatever. It was super-quiet. But just like Marlowe, I needed answers.
Well, I’d left Howie in charge, so I figured that I’d start with him.
Have you ever tried to wake a fully-grown German Shepherd, when he doesn’t want to be woken? It isn’t easy. Especially when he isn’t hungry. Which, judging by all the trash that Butch, Suzie, and I had hauled over and into the Tour Bus, was a good bet. I think, while we’d been gone, Howie et al. had eaten enough to last them a 25-mile hike. (Not that I was complaining. We’d bought plenty of food at the grocery store, the night before. You know Napoleon’s saying: “An army marches on its belly.” Or something like that.)
After kicking Howie a few times (gently, with my toe) and getting absolutely zero response, I decided to try waking Maggie up instead. Being a Lab, she’s almost always up for a run. (Assuming there’s no food around to distract her.)
And I got no response from her, either. Not even a dream-sodden snort.
Maybe they had been drugged. Or gassed. Or… got some serious food poisoning. I shuddered to think. The irony! 8 master chefs, succumbing to coma-inducing food poisoning! Boy, would that set the Internet on fire!
And then, over by the swimming pool, I heard Barnacle Bill perk up. Well, not exactly perk up. He started to moan, real low and drawn-out. I thought I heard him muttering, something about “Put your backs into those holystones! The Commodore won’t be happy!” Or something like that. He’s been known to have shipwreck nightmares, so maybe this was the scowling Captain Bligh inspection variation.
At any rate, he was alive. More or less.
He stood up unsteadily and looked around. When my face came into focus and he realized that it was me, he shivered like his ship had just grounded on a reef, then let out a huge sigh of relief.
“Oh, thank god it’s just you,” he gasped, letting out another huge sigh.
“Yeah, it’s just me,” I agreed. “Who did you think it might be?”
He sank back on his haunches, looking sad and bone-tired. “Nobody, really. I mean…”
He looked around the yard, and perked up a bit. “We got the place cleaned up pretty good, don’t you think?” he asked me.
“Yeah, it looks great. Did you re-paint the shutters.”
He nodded his head. “That’s one thing you learn, when you spend your life at sea. A new coat of paint always makes everything look better… You know, I’ve never been there, but I bet the house looks almost as good as that palace they have over there in India. The Taj Mahal, I think they call it.”
“The Taj Mahal doesn’t have shutters,” I pointed out. “And if it did, I don’t think they would’ve painted them fire-engine red and emerald green.”
“And black,” Barnacle Bill added.
“And black,” I nodded. “Which makes the house look like a DisneyWorld pirate ship.”
“Only on land.”
“Agreed. On land. Definitely.”
June 23, 2020
“So what’s the story?” I asked Barnacle Bill, after a moment of silence.
“The story?” he repeated.
“Yeah. You know: the story. Or perhaps the story behind the story. Figuratively speaking.”
“Well,” he began, hesitantly. Then he perked up, smiling. “Well, it was a stroke of luck, actually.”
I usually wind up hating it, when one of my guys tries to tell me about some dubious “stroke of luck.” Because, usually, it winds up being a stroke of luck for someone else, and I/we end up on the short end of the stick. Figuratively speaking. I didn’t see why this new “stroke of luck” should turn out to play any better for me/us.
“Totally unexpected,” he went on, gaining confidence as he spoke. “Couldn’t have turned out much better, really.”
“Really?” from me, sounding unsure.
“Really… Assuming nothing goes wrong, of course.”
“Of course,” I agreed. “But things could.”
“Go wrong?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “I mean, they still could, right?”
Bill shuffled his paws a bit. “Yeah. I guess you could always say that something might go wrong. I mean, if you were the prudent sort.”
“Which we might be,” I nodded.
“Yes,” he agreed, tentatively. “Nothing wrong with not getting over-confident, and all that.”
“And all that?” I repeated.
“Sure,” he shrugged, still shuffling nervously about. He as definitely avoiding making eye contact. “I mean, there are a lot of what you might call ‘moving parts.’ Stuff that’s really… really quite… beyond your control, after all.”
“Beyond who’s control?”
“Well, you know: the Universe.”
Oh. “The Universe.” That explained everything. I mean, who could argue that the Universe doesn’t have a lot of “moving parts.” Many of which, or almost all of which, are difficult if not impossible to control/predict/take into account.
I once had a brief back-and-forth with Stephen Hawking about how, in his opinion, God must exist, if for no other reason than the fact that no human or computer could possibly account for the state or condition of every particle and wave in the Universe. The fact that present-day humans are incapable of enumerating and evaluating every damn thing in the Universe didn’t strike me as sufficiently disappointing to make us/me rush off in search of a God who might be able to explain and/or control everything. I mean, the galaxies are spinning along quite nicely, whether we can explain them or not.
This conversation with Barnacle Bill was starting to remind me, a little, of that Stephen Hawking interchange. And as much as I enjoyed “Waiting for Godot” the first time I saw it, I really did have better things to do than prolong this nonsensical dialogue with Barnacle Bill much longer.
Meanwhile, we didn’t seem to be disturbing anybody. Every other dog in the place-- on the lawn, over by the swimming pool, and I assumed whichever dogs were inside the house—was still sound asleep, and showing no signs of waking up anytime soon. So Bill and I, if we chose, could’ve kept talking triple forte till the cows came home.
Not that I had intention to do that.
(Purely parenthetical remark: I know a lot of people have always had trouble “getting into” the work of Samuel Beckett. And I’ll admit that it takes some work. But if you happen find yourself in a library anytime soon, pull a copy of his trilogy-- Molloy, Malone Dies, and The Unnameable-- off the shelf and read the opening to the third and final novel, “The Unnameable.” Just the first sentence. It’s truly astounding.)
(Here’s a picture of the cover of Beckett’s very first novel, Murphy. I find the story behind the story heartening, for the aspiring writer:
(The year after Murphy was published, Beckett had moved to Paris and decided that he was on his way to becoming “a major writer.” After many months, though, he wrote to his London publisher and asked them where his royalty checks for the past year were. Had they gotten lost in the mail? Maybe sent to his old Dublin address. And the publisher write back to say that, seeing as how they’d only sold 3 copies of the novel in the past 12 months, they didn’t see any point in wasting the postage on sending him a check for less than 10 bucks.)
(One more point: Literary critics have often referred to The Unnameable as The Unreadable. It is difficult going… But so was this conversation with Barnacle Bill.)
“So what’s the story?” I asked Barnacle Bill, after a moment of silence.
“The story?” he repeated.
“Yeah. You know: the story. Or perhaps the story behind the story. Figuratively speaking.”
“Well,” he began, hesitantly. Then he perked up, smiling. “Well, it was a stroke of luck, actually.”
I usually wind up hating it, when one of my guys tries to tell me about some dubious “stroke of luck.” Because, usually, it winds up being a stroke of luck for someone else, and I/we end up on the short end of the stick. Figuratively speaking. I didn’t see why this new “stroke of luck” should turn out to play any better for me/us.
“Totally unexpected,” he went on, gaining confidence as he spoke. “Couldn’t have turned out much better, really.”
“Really?” from me, sounding unsure.
“Really… Assuming nothing goes wrong, of course.”
“Of course,” I agreed. “But things could.”
“Go wrong?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “I mean, they still could, right?”
Bill shuffled his paws a bit. “Yeah. I guess you could always say that something might go wrong. I mean, if you were the prudent sort.”
“Which we might be,” I nodded.
“Yes,” he agreed, tentatively. “Nothing wrong with not getting over-confident, and all that.”
“And all that?” I repeated.
“Sure,” he shrugged, still shuffling nervously about. He as definitely avoiding making eye contact. “I mean, there are a lot of what you might call ‘moving parts.’ Stuff that’s really… really quite… beyond your control, after all.”
“Beyond who’s control?”
“Well, you know: the Universe.”
Oh. “The Universe.” That explained everything. I mean, who could argue that the Universe doesn’t have a lot of “moving parts.” Many of which, or almost all of which, are difficult if not impossible to control/predict/take into account.
I once had a brief back-and-forth with Stephen Hawking about how, in his opinion, God must exist, if for no other reason than the fact that no human or computer could possibly account for the state or condition of every particle and wave in the Universe. The fact that present-day humans are incapable of enumerating and evaluating every damn thing in the Universe didn’t strike me as sufficiently disappointing to make us/me rush off in search of a God who might be able to explain and/or control everything. I mean, the galaxies are spinning along quite nicely, whether we can explain them or not.
This conversation with Barnacle Bill was starting to remind me, a little, of that Stephen Hawking interchange. And as much as I enjoyed “Waiting for Godot” the first time I saw it, I really did have better things to do than prolong this nonsensical dialogue with Barnacle Bill much longer.
Meanwhile, we didn’t seem to be disturbing anybody. Every other dog in the place-- on the lawn, over by the swimming pool, and I assumed whichever dogs were inside the house—was still sound asleep, and showing no signs of waking up anytime soon. So Bill and I, if we chose, could’ve kept talking triple forte till the cows came home.
Not that I had intention to do that.
(Purely parenthetical remark: I know a lot of people have always had trouble “getting into” the work of Samuel Beckett. And I’ll admit that it takes some work. But if you happen find yourself in a library anytime soon, pull a copy of his trilogy-- Molloy, Malone Dies, and The Unnameable-- off the shelf and read the opening to the third and final novel, “The Unnameable.” Just the first sentence. It’s truly astounding.)
(Here’s a picture of the cover of Beckett’s very first novel, Murphy. I find the story behind the story heartening, for the aspiring writer:
(The year after Murphy was published, Beckett had moved to Paris and decided that he was on his way to becoming “a major writer.” After many months, though, he wrote to his London publisher and asked them where his royalty checks for the past year were. Had they gotten lost in the mail? Maybe sent to his old Dublin address. And the publisher write back to say that, seeing as how they’d only sold 3 copies of the novel in the past 12 months, they didn’t see any point in wasting the postage on sending him a check for less than 10 bucks.)
(One more point: Literary critics have often referred to The Unnameable as The Unreadable. It is difficult going… But so was this conversation with Barnacle Bill.)
June 24, 2020
I can’t refrain from continuing this Samuel Beckett digression with one more story. It’s one of those “you can’t make this stuff up” coincidences that make life just that little bit more fascinating.
So… This story is in an unauthorized biography of Beckett written by Deirdre Bair. Early 1970’s, I’d guess. The whole book’s really worth a read. Even if you’re just a James Joyce fan. (Beckett worked as Joyce’s private secretary for a while. True.)
Anyway, here’s the extra story:
Beckett’s first novel came out in 1939. Soon thereafter he moved to Paris. Soon after that, the Nazis invaded France and occupied Paris.
If you remember your World War II history, the Nazis only occupied the northern half of France. The southern part was left to be governed by a puppet (collaborationist) regime referred to a “Vichy France.”
So Beckett, at some point, decided to get out of Paris, and away from the Nazis, and moved somewhere in Vichy France territory. (I’m sure Deirdre Bair mentions the name of the town he moved to in Vichy, but I’ve forgotten.)
So he lived outside of some small town for the remainder of the war. And every morning he’d drive into town, to pick up the newspapers and have a cup of coffee. (Who knows where he got all the gas ration cards.) And every morning, on his drive into town, he’d pick up a young schoolboy who lived on a neighboring farm, and he’d drop the kid off at his school.
That kid—the one he picked up every morning and gave a ride to school—grew up to become…
… Andre the Giant. Big-time (nay, iconic) pro wrestler. He also had a good role in the movie “The Princess Bride.”
You can’t make this stuff up.
I can’t refrain from continuing this Samuel Beckett digression with one more story. It’s one of those “you can’t make this stuff up” coincidences that make life just that little bit more fascinating.
So… This story is in an unauthorized biography of Beckett written by Deirdre Bair. Early 1970’s, I’d guess. The whole book’s really worth a read. Even if you’re just a James Joyce fan. (Beckett worked as Joyce’s private secretary for a while. True.)
Anyway, here’s the extra story:
Beckett’s first novel came out in 1939. Soon thereafter he moved to Paris. Soon after that, the Nazis invaded France and occupied Paris.
If you remember your World War II history, the Nazis only occupied the northern half of France. The southern part was left to be governed by a puppet (collaborationist) regime referred to a “Vichy France.”
So Beckett, at some point, decided to get out of Paris, and away from the Nazis, and moved somewhere in Vichy France territory. (I’m sure Deirdre Bair mentions the name of the town he moved to in Vichy, but I’ve forgotten.)
So he lived outside of some small town for the remainder of the war. And every morning he’d drive into town, to pick up the newspapers and have a cup of coffee. (Who knows where he got all the gas ration cards.) And every morning, on his drive into town, he’d pick up a young schoolboy who lived on a neighboring farm, and he’d drop the kid off at his school.
That kid—the one he picked up every morning and gave a ride to school—grew up to become…
… Andre the Giant. Big-time (nay, iconic) pro wrestler. He also had a good role in the movie “The Princess Bride.”
You can’t make this stuff up.
June 25, 2020
By this point, Suzie was starting to get impatient. As in: Either she wanted some real answers, or she needed to go to the bathroom. (I was not going to let her take another hours-long bath, like the night before. I mean, I understood that she and Fifi needed a few hours to hide out from all the neighboring dogs that they’d teased, the night before. They’d probably run about 50 laps around the house before they—Fifi and Suzie—had managed to duck into the house and escape their wannabe paramours. But they’d also used up all the hot water, luxuriating in that oversized “spa” of a bathtub in the master “suite.”)
But she was clearly antsy.
“So, was it really aliens?” he demanded of Barnacle Bill.
“What?”
“Aliens,” she repeated. “You know, those people that come out of the sky and hypnotize you and take you off to their home planet.”
“Why would they do that?” Bill wanted to know.
“To study you,” Suzie explained somewhat petulantly, as if she was speaking to a third-grader.
Which Barnacle Bill seemed to think extremely funny.
“It shouldn’t take long, if they wanted to study me,” he smiled. “Four legs, one head, a tail. None too bright, for all that. Smart enough to mend a sail, of course. I mean, I know how to do what needs to be done.”
He thought for a moment.
“You think they’d have any fishing up there? On their home planet?”
“Why?” Suzie asked. “Why would they have fishing? Any civilization far enough advanced to fly a zillion mega-parsecs to get here wouldn’t need to fish.”
“Maybe they’d do it for relaxation,” Bill ventured.
“Lots of times I’ll smoke a side of beef for a softball game, and won’t even eat any of it myself,” Butch threw in. “I just enjoy doing it.”
“Right,” nodded Bill. “There’s been times when I’ve signed on to crew a fishing scow, just for the heck of it.”
“And you never ate anything?” asked Suzie.
Bill shrugged. “To be honest, you can get sick of eating fish, day in and day out. Lots of times I’ll just pop open a can of beef stew, maybe a can of baked beans with a few hot dogs…”
He started to get a dreamy look in his eyes, the way he does when he’s starting to get hungry.
I needed to interrupt.
“So, I take it, it wasn’t aliens?”
Barnacle Bill snapped out of it. “Oh. No. It wasn’t aliens.”
I nodded my head. “Well, that’s reassuring.” I looked at Suzie, then at Butch. “I’d hate to think that we’d gone to the grocery store for a couple of hours, come back, and completely missed out of Earth’s first real encounter with an extra-galactic civilization.”
Suzie held up a paw to interrupt.
“I don’t think it’d be extra-galactic. More likely, they’d come from what the astronomy guys call our ‘local group.’ Someplace nearby, like Alpha Centauri, the Andromeda cluster. You know.”
Right. That pretty much put the kibosh on any further discussion of aliens.
I hoped.
By this point, Suzie was starting to get impatient. As in: Either she wanted some real answers, or she needed to go to the bathroom. (I was not going to let her take another hours-long bath, like the night before. I mean, I understood that she and Fifi needed a few hours to hide out from all the neighboring dogs that they’d teased, the night before. They’d probably run about 50 laps around the house before they—Fifi and Suzie—had managed to duck into the house and escape their wannabe paramours. But they’d also used up all the hot water, luxuriating in that oversized “spa” of a bathtub in the master “suite.”)
But she was clearly antsy.
“So, was it really aliens?” he demanded of Barnacle Bill.
“What?”
“Aliens,” she repeated. “You know, those people that come out of the sky and hypnotize you and take you off to their home planet.”
“Why would they do that?” Bill wanted to know.
“To study you,” Suzie explained somewhat petulantly, as if she was speaking to a third-grader.
Which Barnacle Bill seemed to think extremely funny.
“It shouldn’t take long, if they wanted to study me,” he smiled. “Four legs, one head, a tail. None too bright, for all that. Smart enough to mend a sail, of course. I mean, I know how to do what needs to be done.”
He thought for a moment.
“You think they’d have any fishing up there? On their home planet?”
“Why?” Suzie asked. “Why would they have fishing? Any civilization far enough advanced to fly a zillion mega-parsecs to get here wouldn’t need to fish.”
“Maybe they’d do it for relaxation,” Bill ventured.
“Lots of times I’ll smoke a side of beef for a softball game, and won’t even eat any of it myself,” Butch threw in. “I just enjoy doing it.”
“Right,” nodded Bill. “There’s been times when I’ve signed on to crew a fishing scow, just for the heck of it.”
“And you never ate anything?” asked Suzie.
Bill shrugged. “To be honest, you can get sick of eating fish, day in and day out. Lots of times I’ll just pop open a can of beef stew, maybe a can of baked beans with a few hot dogs…”
He started to get a dreamy look in his eyes, the way he does when he’s starting to get hungry.
I needed to interrupt.
“So, I take it, it wasn’t aliens?”
Barnacle Bill snapped out of it. “Oh. No. It wasn’t aliens.”
I nodded my head. “Well, that’s reassuring.” I looked at Suzie, then at Butch. “I’d hate to think that we’d gone to the grocery store for a couple of hours, come back, and completely missed out of Earth’s first real encounter with an extra-galactic civilization.”
Suzie held up a paw to interrupt.
“I don’t think it’d be extra-galactic. More likely, they’d come from what the astronomy guys call our ‘local group.’ Someplace nearby, like Alpha Centauri, the Andromeda cluster. You know.”
Right. That pretty much put the kibosh on any further discussion of aliens.
I hoped.
June 26, 2020
Okay, so it’s not like me to keep making pretty-much-irrelevant digressions, but the notion of aliens abducting somebody, flying them back to their home planet, and taking them fishing is so… unusual… that I can’t pass up the opportunity to tell you a (true) story from one of the famous guys in science.
Chistiaan Huygens, the Dutch physicist and astronomer, was, among other things, the guy who discovered the rings of Saturn. (Not Cassini. He discovered the gaps between the rings. If I recall correctly.) He also worked on the development of the pendulum clock, and formulated Huygens’ Principle. (You’ll have to look that one up. It’s about wave propagation.)
Anyway… He lived in the 17th century. Was a friend/correspondent of Isaac Newton’s. Very much a heavyweight in the world of science.
But… He also was kinda… wrong… about a few things. (As all scientists are, from time to time.)
He developed a curious argument which, strangely enough, sorta bears on this discussion I’d been having with Barnacle Bill, Suzie, and Butch, about whether there’d be good fishing (or any fishing), or maybe just recreational fishing, on the aliens’ home planet. Which you’d find out for yourself, if they kidnapped you and flew you home with them.
So…
Christiaan Huygens, using a deductive method of reasoning which we usually label a “syllogism,” advanced the following argument:
Galileo had discovered the four largest moons of Jupiter. (And no: Galileo did not himself invent the telescope.) Now, as everyone knows, sailors use the moon and the stars by which to navigate. Our planet earth had one moon, and it controls the ocean tides and aids in navigation. Jupiter, which has not one but four moons, therefore must have an awful lot of sailors. Who else would need that many moons, right?
Taking this a few steps further, having “deduced” that the planet Jupiter must have even more sailors than does our own planet Earth, Huygens went on to extrapolate that Jupiter must have a whole lot of ships. What with all those sailors. They’d all be needing ships to sail in, right?
And having this established that Jupiter must have a real real real lot of ships, Huygens argued that all those ships would need a s---load of sails.
And it’s short hop, from there, to deciding that with all those sails, you’d have a absolutely huge demand for rope! All those moons. All those sailors. All those ships. All those sails. You’d need an immense amount of rope! And rope wears out, so you’d need enough to keep replacing the rope that was always wearing out.
Which means that the people of Jupiter must’ve spent an awful lot of time…
… growing hemp!
Huygens really promoted this argument. (I’m not making this up.)
From the existence of the 4 known moons of Jupiter, he deduced that a vast chunk of Jovian agriculture must have (must have) been devoted to the production of hemp.
Isn’t science amazing?
Okay, so it’s not like me to keep making pretty-much-irrelevant digressions, but the notion of aliens abducting somebody, flying them back to their home planet, and taking them fishing is so… unusual… that I can’t pass up the opportunity to tell you a (true) story from one of the famous guys in science.
Chistiaan Huygens, the Dutch physicist and astronomer, was, among other things, the guy who discovered the rings of Saturn. (Not Cassini. He discovered the gaps between the rings. If I recall correctly.) He also worked on the development of the pendulum clock, and formulated Huygens’ Principle. (You’ll have to look that one up. It’s about wave propagation.)
Anyway… He lived in the 17th century. Was a friend/correspondent of Isaac Newton’s. Very much a heavyweight in the world of science.
But… He also was kinda… wrong… about a few things. (As all scientists are, from time to time.)
He developed a curious argument which, strangely enough, sorta bears on this discussion I’d been having with Barnacle Bill, Suzie, and Butch, about whether there’d be good fishing (or any fishing), or maybe just recreational fishing, on the aliens’ home planet. Which you’d find out for yourself, if they kidnapped you and flew you home with them.
So…
Christiaan Huygens, using a deductive method of reasoning which we usually label a “syllogism,” advanced the following argument:
Galileo had discovered the four largest moons of Jupiter. (And no: Galileo did not himself invent the telescope.) Now, as everyone knows, sailors use the moon and the stars by which to navigate. Our planet earth had one moon, and it controls the ocean tides and aids in navigation. Jupiter, which has not one but four moons, therefore must have an awful lot of sailors. Who else would need that many moons, right?
Taking this a few steps further, having “deduced” that the planet Jupiter must have even more sailors than does our own planet Earth, Huygens went on to extrapolate that Jupiter must have a whole lot of ships. What with all those sailors. They’d all be needing ships to sail in, right?
And having this established that Jupiter must have a real real real lot of ships, Huygens argued that all those ships would need a s---load of sails.
And it’s short hop, from there, to deciding that with all those sails, you’d have a absolutely huge demand for rope! All those moons. All those sailors. All those ships. All those sails. You’d need an immense amount of rope! And rope wears out, so you’d need enough to keep replacing the rope that was always wearing out.
Which means that the people of Jupiter must’ve spent an awful lot of time…
… growing hemp!
Huygens really promoted this argument. (I’m not making this up.)
From the existence of the 4 known moons of Jupiter, he deduced that a vast chunk of Jovian agriculture must have (must have) been devoted to the production of hemp.
Isn’t science amazing?
June 29, 2020
So it hadn’t been aliens. I didn’t need to keep harping on that.
And Barnacle Bill, at least, had woken up, so it couldn’t have been food poisoning. (He’s got maybe the most sensitive stomach/digestive tract in the group, so if anyone was gonna go down with food poisoning, I think it would’ve been him.)
So now all I had to do was persevere with the intense questioning, and I could get to the bottom of this.
Any way I looked at it, though, the place looked great. We’d arrived just the night before (after getting sprung from jail up in Baltimore, if you recall), had quite involuntarily hosted a swim/surf party in the pool for every dog within ten miles (it seemed), then had a blow-out dinner, then turned the living room into a summer-camp sleep-over, and then messed the place up even more with a no-holds-barred 5-course breakfast.
Have you ever had 8 soaking wet dogs sleep over in your living room? If you have, you’ll definitely remember what that room smelled like, the next morning. It’s better in the summer (when you can open the windows and air the place out) than in the winter, but we’d actually lit a fire in the pretty-big fireplace the night before, so we did have that residual Campfire Girls wood smoke lingering till at least noontime, even with all the windows and doors opened out.
So, as I said, if it wasn’t aliens, what was it?
I glanced around the yard. All the dogs (besides Barnacle Bill) were still asleep. Deeply asleep.
“Really,” he started to explain, confidently if still a bit sheepishly, “they’re just real tired out. We did a lot of work… And you know, it’s not like we’re professional house cleaners or anything. So this kind of work can take it out of you.”
Suzie stood there, marveling at how much work it must’ve taken. “Did you do all the windows, too?” she asked Bill.
“We did everything,” he almost boasted. “Once we got started—“ He looked down at Terry, who was lying right at Bill’s paws. Dead to the world.
“Terry fell off a ladder. Up there.” He pointed to a gable window that must’ve been 40 feet off the ground. “He had us worried there, for a while. Then we realized he was playing dead.” He shrugged. “So he could quit. Even after we got him to open his eyes—we had to tickle him in that place where he’s so ticklish—even after he opened his eyes, he didn’t want to go back up the ladder. But somebody had to finish those windows. So Howie promised him something…”
His voice trailed off a little. I understood: Howie’d probably promised Terry a candy bar or something. I think Terry’d eat a dozen Milky Way bars, if you let him. And Barnacle Bill, no doubt, didn’t want to have to admit that he’d known what Howie had given him.
“Let’s get back to the beginning,” I said. “I need to know the whole story.”
Bill just nodded his head. Stared down at his paws. So I was going to have to drag this out of him. Okay.
“So Suzie and Butch and I drove into town, to go to the grocery store,” I prodded. “What happened then?”
Silence.
“Well?”
More silence (from Bill), then:
“Well, then my phone rang.”
His phone rang. Now we were getting somewhere.
“And you answered it?” I prodded.
“Of course,” he replied, looking a bit miffed. “I mean, it could’ve been a fan.”
This was met by silence, from Suzie, Butch, and yours truly.
Barnacle Bill brightened up. “Actually, it was a fan.”
“Oh?” I responded. “A fan you might have known? Like, a big fan?”
He couldn’t help beaming. “A pretty big fan, actually.” He looked around at the yard, at all the sleeping dogs. “The guy who owns this house.”
So it hadn’t been aliens. I didn’t need to keep harping on that.
And Barnacle Bill, at least, had woken up, so it couldn’t have been food poisoning. (He’s got maybe the most sensitive stomach/digestive tract in the group, so if anyone was gonna go down with food poisoning, I think it would’ve been him.)
So now all I had to do was persevere with the intense questioning, and I could get to the bottom of this.
Any way I looked at it, though, the place looked great. We’d arrived just the night before (after getting sprung from jail up in Baltimore, if you recall), had quite involuntarily hosted a swim/surf party in the pool for every dog within ten miles (it seemed), then had a blow-out dinner, then turned the living room into a summer-camp sleep-over, and then messed the place up even more with a no-holds-barred 5-course breakfast.
Have you ever had 8 soaking wet dogs sleep over in your living room? If you have, you’ll definitely remember what that room smelled like, the next morning. It’s better in the summer (when you can open the windows and air the place out) than in the winter, but we’d actually lit a fire in the pretty-big fireplace the night before, so we did have that residual Campfire Girls wood smoke lingering till at least noontime, even with all the windows and doors opened out.
So, as I said, if it wasn’t aliens, what was it?
I glanced around the yard. All the dogs (besides Barnacle Bill) were still asleep. Deeply asleep.
“Really,” he started to explain, confidently if still a bit sheepishly, “they’re just real tired out. We did a lot of work… And you know, it’s not like we’re professional house cleaners or anything. So this kind of work can take it out of you.”
Suzie stood there, marveling at how much work it must’ve taken. “Did you do all the windows, too?” she asked Bill.
“We did everything,” he almost boasted. “Once we got started—“ He looked down at Terry, who was lying right at Bill’s paws. Dead to the world.
“Terry fell off a ladder. Up there.” He pointed to a gable window that must’ve been 40 feet off the ground. “He had us worried there, for a while. Then we realized he was playing dead.” He shrugged. “So he could quit. Even after we got him to open his eyes—we had to tickle him in that place where he’s so ticklish—even after he opened his eyes, he didn’t want to go back up the ladder. But somebody had to finish those windows. So Howie promised him something…”
His voice trailed off a little. I understood: Howie’d probably promised Terry a candy bar or something. I think Terry’d eat a dozen Milky Way bars, if you let him. And Barnacle Bill, no doubt, didn’t want to have to admit that he’d known what Howie had given him.
“Let’s get back to the beginning,” I said. “I need to know the whole story.”
Bill just nodded his head. Stared down at his paws. So I was going to have to drag this out of him. Okay.
“So Suzie and Butch and I drove into town, to go to the grocery store,” I prodded. “What happened then?”
Silence.
“Well?”
More silence (from Bill), then:
“Well, then my phone rang.”
His phone rang. Now we were getting somewhere.
“And you answered it?” I prodded.
“Of course,” he replied, looking a bit miffed. “I mean, it could’ve been a fan.”
This was met by silence, from Suzie, Butch, and yours truly.
Barnacle Bill brightened up. “Actually, it was a fan.”
“Oh?” I responded. “A fan you might have known? Like, a big fan?”
He couldn’t help beaming. “A pretty big fan, actually.” He looked around at the yard, at all the sleeping dogs. “The guy who owns this house.”
June 30, 2020
“The guy who owns this house?” I repeated, trying to hide my incredulity. I mean, what were the odds that the guy who owned this house would just happen to call Barnacle Bill… the very day after we’d arrived.
“Yeah,” Bill nodded. “I told you I knew this guy.”
“Well yeah,” I shrugged. “That’s kinda why we’re here. Cuz you knew this guy.” I looked around the yard. “I mean, of all the houses in all the towns in eastern Virginia, I kinda figured that you directed us here because you knew the guy who owned the place.” I paused, then gave Bill my version of “the evil eye.” “Because I sort-of assumed that he’d given you permission for us to stay here… Right?”
“Uh, yeah,” he hesitated. “Exactly… Well, not exactly. I thought I’d made that clear. ‘Not exactly’ was what I’d been aiming for, when I explained things. I mean, we had to go somewhere, right? And this is the first place I thought of.”
Silence, from me, Suzie, and Butch.
“Well,” Bill stammered, “nobody else had any ideas. Did they?”
More silence, from me, Suzie, and Butch. Did he did have a point. Nobody else had volunteered any other idea. And we had needed a place to crash, after that night in the slammer up in Baltimore. A place to “lie low” for a while. And nobody had objected, when we’d rolled up to the place. Granted, it was a bit run-down (“poorly maintained,” in realtor-ese), but it did have a nice big grassy yard. And it did have a swimming pool. None of the guys was going to object to a swimming pool. (And in fact, the big pool/surf party the night before had been a big success, especially with the two dozen or so neighborhood dogs who’d attended somewhat uninvited.)
But this line of thought was getting us anywhere. So I switched back to interrogator mode.
“So your phone rang,” I went back to prodding.
“Right,” Barnacle Bill nodded. “My phone rang. And lo and behold, speak of the devil, shiver me timbers and all that… it was Mort! Completely out of the blue. Caught me blind-sided! Bush-whacked!—“
“Okay, okay, we get the picture,” Suzie interrupted. “You were surprised.”
“All but dumbfounded,” Bill agreed. Readily.
“So who the heck is Mort?” Butch wanted to know. (For all of us.)
Bill spread his front paws open and gave us this tongue-wagging look. “The guy I was telling you about. Mort. You know, the guy who owns this place.”
“Ohhhh… that Mort,” Butch, Suzie, and I said in unison.
“Yeah, that Mort,” Bill nodded. As if that was enough of an explanation.
Butch and Suzie and I looked at each other, to see which one of us was gonna have to ask the next—totally obvious—so obvious that it should’ve been unnecessary—question.
Finally Suzie gave up waiting, and blurted out, “So why did this Mort guy call you?”
“Oh,” Bill sat up, as if realizing for the first time that all the rest of the explanation wasn’t actually totally obvious. “Because he’s coming to see us.”
It took a moment or two for this to sink in. Then I asked, “And you see that as a good thing?”
Bill perked up. Smiled. “Yeah. I mean, potentially…”
“Potentially,” Butch, Suzie, and I half-moaned, again in unison.
Bill nodded again. “Yeah. Definitely. Definitely potentially.”
“And why’s that?” I followed up, real quick.
“Because he’s bringing someone with him,” Bill explained.
Another moment of silence. Then I asked, “And when is this potentially blessed event expected to occur?”
Bill thought on that for a second, then said, “He wasn’t real definite. He just said ‘soon.’”
“Like maybe today? Tomorrow?”
“Something like that, yeah. He just said ‘soon.’”
“Mort and this other guy,” Butch muttered. “They’re just gonna drop by?”
Bill shrugged. “Well, it was more like they’d ‘drop in.’ See, they’re old Army buddies, is the way Mort explained it to me. 82nd Airborne. And he was sorta chuckling when he said that they liked to surprise people, when he said something about ‘dropping in…’”
Bill looked a bit sheepish. “So maybe they really are just gonna ‘drop in.’ I wouldn’t put it past him… I mean: Mort.”
“The guy who owns this house?” I repeated, trying to hide my incredulity. I mean, what were the odds that the guy who owned this house would just happen to call Barnacle Bill… the very day after we’d arrived.
“Yeah,” Bill nodded. “I told you I knew this guy.”
“Well yeah,” I shrugged. “That’s kinda why we’re here. Cuz you knew this guy.” I looked around the yard. “I mean, of all the houses in all the towns in eastern Virginia, I kinda figured that you directed us here because you knew the guy who owned the place.” I paused, then gave Bill my version of “the evil eye.” “Because I sort-of assumed that he’d given you permission for us to stay here… Right?”
“Uh, yeah,” he hesitated. “Exactly… Well, not exactly. I thought I’d made that clear. ‘Not exactly’ was what I’d been aiming for, when I explained things. I mean, we had to go somewhere, right? And this is the first place I thought of.”
Silence, from me, Suzie, and Butch.
“Well,” Bill stammered, “nobody else had any ideas. Did they?”
More silence, from me, Suzie, and Butch. Did he did have a point. Nobody else had volunteered any other idea. And we had needed a place to crash, after that night in the slammer up in Baltimore. A place to “lie low” for a while. And nobody had objected, when we’d rolled up to the place. Granted, it was a bit run-down (“poorly maintained,” in realtor-ese), but it did have a nice big grassy yard. And it did have a swimming pool. None of the guys was going to object to a swimming pool. (And in fact, the big pool/surf party the night before had been a big success, especially with the two dozen or so neighborhood dogs who’d attended somewhat uninvited.)
But this line of thought was getting us anywhere. So I switched back to interrogator mode.
“So your phone rang,” I went back to prodding.
“Right,” Barnacle Bill nodded. “My phone rang. And lo and behold, speak of the devil, shiver me timbers and all that… it was Mort! Completely out of the blue. Caught me blind-sided! Bush-whacked!—“
“Okay, okay, we get the picture,” Suzie interrupted. “You were surprised.”
“All but dumbfounded,” Bill agreed. Readily.
“So who the heck is Mort?” Butch wanted to know. (For all of us.)
Bill spread his front paws open and gave us this tongue-wagging look. “The guy I was telling you about. Mort. You know, the guy who owns this place.”
“Ohhhh… that Mort,” Butch, Suzie, and I said in unison.
“Yeah, that Mort,” Bill nodded. As if that was enough of an explanation.
Butch and Suzie and I looked at each other, to see which one of us was gonna have to ask the next—totally obvious—so obvious that it should’ve been unnecessary—question.
Finally Suzie gave up waiting, and blurted out, “So why did this Mort guy call you?”
“Oh,” Bill sat up, as if realizing for the first time that all the rest of the explanation wasn’t actually totally obvious. “Because he’s coming to see us.”
It took a moment or two for this to sink in. Then I asked, “And you see that as a good thing?”
Bill perked up. Smiled. “Yeah. I mean, potentially…”
“Potentially,” Butch, Suzie, and I half-moaned, again in unison.
Bill nodded again. “Yeah. Definitely. Definitely potentially.”
“And why’s that?” I followed up, real quick.
“Because he’s bringing someone with him,” Bill explained.
Another moment of silence. Then I asked, “And when is this potentially blessed event expected to occur?”
Bill thought on that for a second, then said, “He wasn’t real definite. He just said ‘soon.’”
“Like maybe today? Tomorrow?”
“Something like that, yeah. He just said ‘soon.’”
“Mort and this other guy,” Butch muttered. “They’re just gonna drop by?”
Bill shrugged. “Well, it was more like they’d ‘drop in.’ See, they’re old Army buddies, is the way Mort explained it to me. 82nd Airborne. And he was sorta chuckling when he said that they liked to surprise people, when he said something about ‘dropping in…’”
Bill looked a bit sheepish. “So maybe they really are just gonna ‘drop in.’ I wouldn’t put it past him… I mean: Mort.”
July 1, 2020
“You wouldn’t put it past him?” I repeated. “Meaning what?”
Barnacle Bill shuffled his paws a bit, trying to be evasive, then brightened up. “Did I tell you how we met?”
“Who?”
“Mort,” he said. “Me and Mort. Did I tell you how we met?”
“No,” said Suzie, irritated. “Does it matter?”
“Well, it’d explain a lot. I mean, how we’re pals and all that.”
Barnacle Bill paused, seeming to reflect on a welcome memory.
“See, I saved his life.”
Butch growled. “Aw, come one. You expect us to believe that? A guy owns this huge mansion, and you saved his life? Where, pray tell? Were you in the Army with him?”
“No,” Bill laughed. “I wasn’t in the Army. It was down I the Keys. I was bone-fishing with Jimmy Buffett.”
This revelation was met with a very significangt bout of doubtful silence from Suzie, Butch, and yours truly.
“Seriously,” Bill went on, lookig perfectly serious. “We were out one day on Jimmy’s skiff. Flat-bottomed little number. And if I hadn’t loaded it down so much with all my gear, we never would’ve run aground.”
Which explained absolutely nothing.
So Bill went on. “See, we were out in basically the middle of nowhere, which is precisely where we wanted to be, when we ran up on a sand bar, and we were figuring that we’d be sitting out there for hours, in the baking sun, waiting for the tide to turn…”
I couldn’t see where this was heading, but we had to let him talk.
“… And we really didn’t have much water left, so we were wondering if maybe we’d get so de-hydrated that we’d start to hallucinate. And then we’d maybe never get back to civilization at all. Like, we’d just die out there…”
Yeah, yeah.
“… When all of a sudden, we strat hearing this almost-annoying buzzing out there. Kinda like a herd of mosquitoes, heading our way, off to the horizon. And then we saw this little speck of a boat—or at least we thought it was a boat—maybe we’d already started hallucinating. When sure enough, the buzzing got louder, and the boat got bigger. And before we knew it, it was almost on top of us! We looked at each other, like maybe we’d drunk too much seawater, and boy, for a moment there I was feeling pretty scared. It was bearing down on us at a pretty good clip, and it seemed like whoever was steering that baby didn’t even see us. Like we were invisible or something, and it was gonna take us straight on the beam.”
Barnacle Bill lapses into nautical talk whenever he get excited, but you get the drift.
“So then what happened?” Suzie wanted to know.
“Well then we saw it,” Bill went on. “Him, I mean. Mort, as it turned out. Not that I knew it was Mort—“
“Cuz you didn’t know Mort,” Butch threw in.
“Exactly,” Bill nodded. “But it was Mort. I mean, up in the air…” He paused, almost like he was in a trance, remembering all of this.
“And that’s why the pilot, the guy who was at the wheel, hadn’t noticed us,” Bill continued. “Mort was up in a paraglider, getting towed by this inboard motor, and somehow his line had gotten fouled around his legs, or maybe it was with the harness. Whatever it was, instead of flying in a straight line behind the boat, he was yawing back-and-forth up in the air, kinda like in three dimensions. And here Jimmy and I had thought that we were in trouble. Heck, at least we were on flat water.”
Ever the sailor, our Bill. There was nothing safer, to him, than flat water.
“Well,” Bill went on, “fortunately for us, my pal Jimmy has incredible presence of mind. And so just when we thought that that over-powered smack was ging to ram us amidships, Jimmy cranked up his boom box to full power! It must’ve been an 11 or 12! And he just happened to have some early Led Zeppelin cued up…” He smiled. “I can remember it like it was yesterday. ‘Communication Breakdown’ crashing out—ear-splitting loud—across the water.”
Bill sat back and smiled to himself.
“And?” Suzie asked impatiently.
“Oh,” Bill snapped out of it. “Well, the guy driving the boat noticed us at the last second, turned the wheel hard over, and zoomed straight across our bow at about 4000 knots. It was sooo close!” He chuckled to himself.
“And then, around came the tow rope, and hooked right around our bottom. Which, of course, was still buried in the sand. And if I hadn’t stowed so much extra stuff on board, with all that added weight, that rope probably would’ve just flipped us over like a flapjack on a griddle.”
Bill thought about that simile for a moment. “Or maybe, this being a sea-going yarn, I should say ‘like a flounder in a frying pan.’”
“Whatever,” from Butch, just wanting Bill to get on with his story.
“Well, I like to get it right,” Bill shrugged. “Yeah, I like ‘like a flounder in a frying pan’ better. You can almost hear it sizzling.”
“Whatever,” from Suzie.
(I was getting a bit antsy, too. Why do “fish” stories always seem to go on forever?)
“You wouldn’t put it past him?” I repeated. “Meaning what?”
Barnacle Bill shuffled his paws a bit, trying to be evasive, then brightened up. “Did I tell you how we met?”
“Who?”
“Mort,” he said. “Me and Mort. Did I tell you how we met?”
“No,” said Suzie, irritated. “Does it matter?”
“Well, it’d explain a lot. I mean, how we’re pals and all that.”
Barnacle Bill paused, seeming to reflect on a welcome memory.
“See, I saved his life.”
Butch growled. “Aw, come one. You expect us to believe that? A guy owns this huge mansion, and you saved his life? Where, pray tell? Were you in the Army with him?”
“No,” Bill laughed. “I wasn’t in the Army. It was down I the Keys. I was bone-fishing with Jimmy Buffett.”
This revelation was met with a very significangt bout of doubtful silence from Suzie, Butch, and yours truly.
“Seriously,” Bill went on, lookig perfectly serious. “We were out one day on Jimmy’s skiff. Flat-bottomed little number. And if I hadn’t loaded it down so much with all my gear, we never would’ve run aground.”
Which explained absolutely nothing.
So Bill went on. “See, we were out in basically the middle of nowhere, which is precisely where we wanted to be, when we ran up on a sand bar, and we were figuring that we’d be sitting out there for hours, in the baking sun, waiting for the tide to turn…”
I couldn’t see where this was heading, but we had to let him talk.
“… And we really didn’t have much water left, so we were wondering if maybe we’d get so de-hydrated that we’d start to hallucinate. And then we’d maybe never get back to civilization at all. Like, we’d just die out there…”
Yeah, yeah.
“… When all of a sudden, we strat hearing this almost-annoying buzzing out there. Kinda like a herd of mosquitoes, heading our way, off to the horizon. And then we saw this little speck of a boat—or at least we thought it was a boat—maybe we’d already started hallucinating. When sure enough, the buzzing got louder, and the boat got bigger. And before we knew it, it was almost on top of us! We looked at each other, like maybe we’d drunk too much seawater, and boy, for a moment there I was feeling pretty scared. It was bearing down on us at a pretty good clip, and it seemed like whoever was steering that baby didn’t even see us. Like we were invisible or something, and it was gonna take us straight on the beam.”
Barnacle Bill lapses into nautical talk whenever he get excited, but you get the drift.
“So then what happened?” Suzie wanted to know.
“Well then we saw it,” Bill went on. “Him, I mean. Mort, as it turned out. Not that I knew it was Mort—“
“Cuz you didn’t know Mort,” Butch threw in.
“Exactly,” Bill nodded. “But it was Mort. I mean, up in the air…” He paused, almost like he was in a trance, remembering all of this.
“And that’s why the pilot, the guy who was at the wheel, hadn’t noticed us,” Bill continued. “Mort was up in a paraglider, getting towed by this inboard motor, and somehow his line had gotten fouled around his legs, or maybe it was with the harness. Whatever it was, instead of flying in a straight line behind the boat, he was yawing back-and-forth up in the air, kinda like in three dimensions. And here Jimmy and I had thought that we were in trouble. Heck, at least we were on flat water.”
Ever the sailor, our Bill. There was nothing safer, to him, than flat water.
“Well,” Bill went on, “fortunately for us, my pal Jimmy has incredible presence of mind. And so just when we thought that that over-powered smack was ging to ram us amidships, Jimmy cranked up his boom box to full power! It must’ve been an 11 or 12! And he just happened to have some early Led Zeppelin cued up…” He smiled. “I can remember it like it was yesterday. ‘Communication Breakdown’ crashing out—ear-splitting loud—across the water.”
Bill sat back and smiled to himself.
“And?” Suzie asked impatiently.
“Oh,” Bill snapped out of it. “Well, the guy driving the boat noticed us at the last second, turned the wheel hard over, and zoomed straight across our bow at about 4000 knots. It was sooo close!” He chuckled to himself.
“And then, around came the tow rope, and hooked right around our bottom. Which, of course, was still buried in the sand. And if I hadn’t stowed so much extra stuff on board, with all that added weight, that rope probably would’ve just flipped us over like a flapjack on a griddle.”
Bill thought about that simile for a moment. “Or maybe, this being a sea-going yarn, I should say ‘like a flounder in a frying pan.’”
“Whatever,” from Butch, just wanting Bill to get on with his story.
“Well, I like to get it right,” Bill shrugged. “Yeah, I like ‘like a flounder in a frying pan’ better. You can almost hear it sizzling.”
“Whatever,” from Suzie.
(I was getting a bit antsy, too. Why do “fish” stories always seem to go on forever?)
July 2, 2020
So Barnacle Bill obviously had a ways more to go with this story, but I guess we weren’t in any great hurry. All the other dogs—and I do mean all of them, meaning all the neighborhood dogs that’d migrated over to “our place” for the time being, it seemed, as well as our own Fifi, Terry, Mona Lassie, Maggie, and Howie—were still lying around, sound asleep. Dead to the world. So we weren’t going on to the next “event” anytime soon. Whatever the next event turned out to be. So we had plenty of time to take in the rest of Barnacle Bill’s tall tale.
“So the next thing happened in basically a split second,” Bill went on. “That powerful inboard—and I’m talking powerful—she was probably carrying twin 500’s underneath all that well-oiled teak—just roared right by us, tucking the tow rope underneath our helm, and curling back behind us in your basic split-second flash. And like I said, if I hadn’t loaded us down with all my superfluous gear (and also Jimmy’s coolers-full of liquid refreshments, of course), we would’ve flipped straight up and straight over before we’d even knew what hit us.
“But as it was, that tow rope cinched down tight as a piano wire under our bow, and my gosh, you should’ve that high-pitched whine-and-squeal as it started all but sawing through our hull. But luckily for us, I can think fast on my paws, too, sometimes. And it’s probably from all those lonely dark nights I’d stood watch on New Bedford whalers back in the day…”
Okay. Here we go, I thought. Bill pulls this “Ancient Mariner” crap every once in a while, and we have to gently “nudge’ him back to reality. So…
“So the tow rope’s about to saw your boat in half,” I prodded.
“Right,” he nodded, snapping back to The Present. “You know, with all the noise and the excitement, and the monster wake that that inboard laid on us… I mean, it almost pitched us over all by itself… I’d almost forgotten that there was some guy at the tail-end of that rope, flying away up there with that paraglider.
“But quick as spit, I realized that I had to do something quick—and I do mean quick—or that fly-boy was gonna go whip-splat into the water, definite pancake.”
Butch, Suzie, and I nodded our heads, letting him know that we were following where he was going with this.
“So before I even had time to think,” Bill went on, “I leaped at that tow rope and began to chew.”
What?!
He nodded his head. “Yeah. I sunk my teeth into it, and just started gnawin’.”
That was kinda hard to believe. Bill’s not that big a guy, and he must’ve been talking a good 4-inch cord. He’s going to chew through 4-inches of tight-wound hemp on a rollicking boat, teetering on a sand bar?
“I know,” Bill admitted, “It sounds crazy, but I wasn’t thinking. I was just reacting… And fortunately for me, Jimmy Buffett has a foot-locker-full of experience with weird things happening out on the water… And so before I’d even gotten the first few strands of that rope chewed clean, Jimmy’d reached back, grabbed a short gaff hook, and yanked that rope clear off of the curl of our bow. And before I knew it, that rope had snapped shear off about a foot below my jaw. Boy, it felt like I’d been walloped by Joe Louis!”
He snapped his head back as he said this, as if re-enacting the scene.
“But before I had time to do more than wince,” he went on, “I realized that, yeah, the rope had been cut, but now…
“… now I was airborne.”
So Barnacle Bill obviously had a ways more to go with this story, but I guess we weren’t in any great hurry. All the other dogs—and I do mean all of them, meaning all the neighborhood dogs that’d migrated over to “our place” for the time being, it seemed, as well as our own Fifi, Terry, Mona Lassie, Maggie, and Howie—were still lying around, sound asleep. Dead to the world. So we weren’t going on to the next “event” anytime soon. Whatever the next event turned out to be. So we had plenty of time to take in the rest of Barnacle Bill’s tall tale.
“So the next thing happened in basically a split second,” Bill went on. “That powerful inboard—and I’m talking powerful—she was probably carrying twin 500’s underneath all that well-oiled teak—just roared right by us, tucking the tow rope underneath our helm, and curling back behind us in your basic split-second flash. And like I said, if I hadn’t loaded us down with all my superfluous gear (and also Jimmy’s coolers-full of liquid refreshments, of course), we would’ve flipped straight up and straight over before we’d even knew what hit us.
“But as it was, that tow rope cinched down tight as a piano wire under our bow, and my gosh, you should’ve that high-pitched whine-and-squeal as it started all but sawing through our hull. But luckily for us, I can think fast on my paws, too, sometimes. And it’s probably from all those lonely dark nights I’d stood watch on New Bedford whalers back in the day…”
Okay. Here we go, I thought. Bill pulls this “Ancient Mariner” crap every once in a while, and we have to gently “nudge’ him back to reality. So…
“So the tow rope’s about to saw your boat in half,” I prodded.
“Right,” he nodded, snapping back to The Present. “You know, with all the noise and the excitement, and the monster wake that that inboard laid on us… I mean, it almost pitched us over all by itself… I’d almost forgotten that there was some guy at the tail-end of that rope, flying away up there with that paraglider.
“But quick as spit, I realized that I had to do something quick—and I do mean quick—or that fly-boy was gonna go whip-splat into the water, definite pancake.”
Butch, Suzie, and I nodded our heads, letting him know that we were following where he was going with this.
“So before I even had time to think,” Bill went on, “I leaped at that tow rope and began to chew.”
What?!
He nodded his head. “Yeah. I sunk my teeth into it, and just started gnawin’.”
That was kinda hard to believe. Bill’s not that big a guy, and he must’ve been talking a good 4-inch cord. He’s going to chew through 4-inches of tight-wound hemp on a rollicking boat, teetering on a sand bar?
“I know,” Bill admitted, “It sounds crazy, but I wasn’t thinking. I was just reacting… And fortunately for me, Jimmy Buffett has a foot-locker-full of experience with weird things happening out on the water… And so before I’d even gotten the first few strands of that rope chewed clean, Jimmy’d reached back, grabbed a short gaff hook, and yanked that rope clear off of the curl of our bow. And before I knew it, that rope had snapped shear off about a foot below my jaw. Boy, it felt like I’d been walloped by Joe Louis!”
He snapped his head back as he said this, as if re-enacting the scene.
“But before I had time to do more than wince,” he went on, “I realized that, yeah, the rope had been cut, but now…
“… now I was airborne.”
July 3, 2020
“The next few seconds are pretty much a blur,” Barnacle Bill continued.
“Were you up in the air all this time?” Suzie asked, now very clearly mesmerized by this unusual tale.
“Oh, yeah,” Bill said. “I had my teeth clenched double-tight on the end of that line, and once we cleared the boat, I started whipping around pretty good. I think it was all my years bouncing waves in wicked nor-easters that had taught me to keep my head ducked down and try to ride things out.”
He paused, half to catch his breath, half to maybe recollect how lucky he was to have survived this unforeseen ordeal.
“You know, when it was all over, Mort credited me—completely—with saving our lives, but I’m not so sure he didn’t so most of the work.”
He paused again, gulped. Then coughed, like he was coughing up a bed memory.
“See, before Jimmy (Buffett) sliced through that tow rope, and I started getting whipsawed back and forth over the water, Mort was up there in that paraglider harness. And somehow, before all this started, he’d gotten the tow rope swung underneath his armpit, and around the back of his neck, and he was strangling to death up there. And he had no way to communicate with the guy driving the boat, so the faster they boat went, the tighter the rope cinched around his neck, and (he said later) his face was turning the color of grape Kool Aid and his arms were going numb.
“And then I start swinging on the bottom end of the rope, and somehow my whipping around down there un-knotted the tow rope. Enough, at least, for Mort to slide his arm under and over the fouled line, and yank it over his head. And then he did basically (what he said was) a full 360 with a twist, if you were diving off a high dive or a cliff down in Acapulco, say, and somehow the parasail survived, and where it was all over, he was sailing clear and straight. And he shook his head to get the cobwebs out, for a second, and that’s when he looked down and saw me dangling by my teeth from the business end of the tow rope.”
Amazing. (If true. Not that Barnacle Bill was known to outright lie, but he is an old sea dog, and old sea dogs do like to tell tales.)
“Were you scared?” asked Butch, enthralled. (And you have to admit, it takes a lot for a full-size adult Bulldog to ask somebody, “Were you scared?”)
Bill shook his head. “Not until I realized I was gonna live.”
“Then you got scared?” asked Suzie.
“H---… Heck, yeah,” Bill said. “Mort pulled me up. Somehow. I don’t know. I’d never thought of him as being that strong… Anyway, he pulled me up. All the way, till I grabbed ahold of his waist with my front paws. And when I realized where I was—we were a good 200 feet up in the air, and moving fast—I got totally, irretrievably terrified.
“Mort said later that I squeezed my front legs around his waist so tight, that it was almost worse than when he’d had the tow rope wrapped around his neck. ‘Out of the frying pan, and into the fire,’ is how he put it.”
“Well, shucks,” Butch said, “I would’ve been hanging on for dear life, too. I get scared when I have to go up on a roof.”
Suzie and I gave him a questioning look.
He shrugged. “When I was a kid, my daddy used to make me go up and clean out the gutters. We had this chimney that used to get birds’ nests in them, over the winter, and then when Daddy wanted to start smokin’ indoors, the flue would get backed up and we’d have to evacuate the house, and—“
Okay. We got the picture.
Back to Bill’s tale:
“So yeah, I was scared,” he continued. “We were a good 200, maybe 300 feet up, and moving fast. I must’ve buried my face in Mort’s midsection for a while, cuz when I finally regained my senses and looked down, Jimmy’s fishing boat and that big-ass motorboat were nowhere to be seen.
“And to make matters worse, we seemed to be heading out to sea…”
Yikes.
“One thing was reassuring, though,” Bill added. “We’d also picked up an escort of some sort of birds. Flying in formation, right along beside us and behind us. And you know, birds tend to fly towards land, not away from it. So that was a good sign…
“Unless they were migrating somewhere,” he mused, half to himself. “Then, of course, all bets are off.”
“The next few seconds are pretty much a blur,” Barnacle Bill continued.
“Were you up in the air all this time?” Suzie asked, now very clearly mesmerized by this unusual tale.
“Oh, yeah,” Bill said. “I had my teeth clenched double-tight on the end of that line, and once we cleared the boat, I started whipping around pretty good. I think it was all my years bouncing waves in wicked nor-easters that had taught me to keep my head ducked down and try to ride things out.”
He paused, half to catch his breath, half to maybe recollect how lucky he was to have survived this unforeseen ordeal.
“You know, when it was all over, Mort credited me—completely—with saving our lives, but I’m not so sure he didn’t so most of the work.”
He paused again, gulped. Then coughed, like he was coughing up a bed memory.
“See, before Jimmy (Buffett) sliced through that tow rope, and I started getting whipsawed back and forth over the water, Mort was up there in that paraglider harness. And somehow, before all this started, he’d gotten the tow rope swung underneath his armpit, and around the back of his neck, and he was strangling to death up there. And he had no way to communicate with the guy driving the boat, so the faster they boat went, the tighter the rope cinched around his neck, and (he said later) his face was turning the color of grape Kool Aid and his arms were going numb.
“And then I start swinging on the bottom end of the rope, and somehow my whipping around down there un-knotted the tow rope. Enough, at least, for Mort to slide his arm under and over the fouled line, and yank it over his head. And then he did basically (what he said was) a full 360 with a twist, if you were diving off a high dive or a cliff down in Acapulco, say, and somehow the parasail survived, and where it was all over, he was sailing clear and straight. And he shook his head to get the cobwebs out, for a second, and that’s when he looked down and saw me dangling by my teeth from the business end of the tow rope.”
Amazing. (If true. Not that Barnacle Bill was known to outright lie, but he is an old sea dog, and old sea dogs do like to tell tales.)
“Were you scared?” asked Butch, enthralled. (And you have to admit, it takes a lot for a full-size adult Bulldog to ask somebody, “Were you scared?”)
Bill shook his head. “Not until I realized I was gonna live.”
“Then you got scared?” asked Suzie.
“H---… Heck, yeah,” Bill said. “Mort pulled me up. Somehow. I don’t know. I’d never thought of him as being that strong… Anyway, he pulled me up. All the way, till I grabbed ahold of his waist with my front paws. And when I realized where I was—we were a good 200 feet up in the air, and moving fast—I got totally, irretrievably terrified.
“Mort said later that I squeezed my front legs around his waist so tight, that it was almost worse than when he’d had the tow rope wrapped around his neck. ‘Out of the frying pan, and into the fire,’ is how he put it.”
“Well, shucks,” Butch said, “I would’ve been hanging on for dear life, too. I get scared when I have to go up on a roof.”
Suzie and I gave him a questioning look.
He shrugged. “When I was a kid, my daddy used to make me go up and clean out the gutters. We had this chimney that used to get birds’ nests in them, over the winter, and then when Daddy wanted to start smokin’ indoors, the flue would get backed up and we’d have to evacuate the house, and—“
Okay. We got the picture.
Back to Bill’s tale:
“So yeah, I was scared,” he continued. “We were a good 200, maybe 300 feet up, and moving fast. I must’ve buried my face in Mort’s midsection for a while, cuz when I finally regained my senses and looked down, Jimmy’s fishing boat and that big-ass motorboat were nowhere to be seen.
“And to make matters worse, we seemed to be heading out to sea…”
Yikes.
“One thing was reassuring, though,” Bill added. “We’d also picked up an escort of some sort of birds. Flying in formation, right along beside us and behind us. And you know, birds tend to fly towards land, not away from it. So that was a good sign…
“Unless they were migrating somewhere,” he mused, half to himself. “Then, of course, all bets are off.”
July 6, 2020
“But they weren’t, were they?” asked Butch. “Migrating? They led you to safety?
Barnacle Bill nodded. “But not right away… Or soon enough, as far as I was concerned.”
He shivered, suddenly. His whole body seemed to shake with the awful recollection.
“I was flippin’ terrified. Mort’s having the time of his life, zooming around up there in the sky, even with me hanging onto his waist for dear life.
“And of course the birds were in their element. I mean, they’ve got wings, right? They’re used to flying.
“But I am definitely not used to flying! And I swore, if I ever got out of this mess, that I’d never even look up at the sky. Much less ever consider getting on an airplane.”
Suzie nodded, feeling sympathetic. “They always want to put us in a crate, too,” she said. “It isn’t fair. I mean, The Network spends good money to buy us first-class tickets, and even then, the ticket-agent people think we belong in a cage.”
“In the cargo hold,” Butch agreed. “We should start a social-media movement.”
Barnacle Bill, temporarily distracted by this change of topic, concurred. “Seems like everybody else has a protest movement. Everybody else has a gripe, and then it goes viral. Maybe we should organize something.”
“I’d be more willing to protest dry food than airplane cages,” Suzie said. “I know, I started this, but you can always talk your way out of a cage.”
“Well, sure, we can,” Butch said. “We’re celebrities.”
“And seriously,” Bill said to Suzie, “when’s the last time you actually had to eat dry dog food?”
“Well…” Suzie mumbled.
“We’re getting off-track,” I interrupted. “Can we please hear the rest of Bill’s story?” I glanced around the yard, then unconsciously lowered my voice. “We’ve gotta wake all these dogs up pretty soon, too. I mean, we can’t leave ‘em out here all night.”
Butch concurred. “Yeah, let’s wrap up this Key West flying-boat story… I almost can’t remember why we’re even hearing it.”
“It’s because Bill said that that’s where he met the guy who owns this house,” Suzie explained, sounding exasperated. I could empathize with her, but Butch has always had an attention-span problem. (Correction: He’s “attention-span-challenged. Much like my piano playing. I’m often accused of being pianistically challenged.)
“Oh, yeah,” Butch nodded. He turned to Barnacle Bill. “If you met this guy Mort down in the Keys, why’s he have an abandoned house here?”
Bill stiffened. “It doesn’t look abandoned, now. I think we cleaned it up pretty good…” He sniffed. “… While you were off… shopping.”
“Okay, okay,” I said, trying to quell the unrest. I looked at Bill. “Let’s just hear the rest of the story.”
But Bill had now decided that his feelings were hurt. To his way of looking at things, he and the rest of The Team (Maggie, Howie, Fifi, Mona Lassie, and Terry) had worked themselves “to the bone” cleaning this joint up, while Suzie and Butch and I’d driven off to “go shopping.” Like “going shopping” was something I thought of as great fun.
Well, “going shopping,” much as I didn’t absolutely delight in doing it, really did beat “cleaning an old house from top to bottom.” I had to admit that. Cleaning pretty much anything had never been high on my list of favorite activities. (Even, say, cleaning golf clubs, which I could certainly understand the value of, if not actually relish doing.)
So now I had to settle Barnacle Bill’s hurt feelings. Had to get him back in story-teller mode. Make him feel that we were “all ears.” That we couldn’t wait to hear how this story ended.
Cuz for the moment, all we knew was that he had his front legs wrapped around this guy Mort’s waist. And Mort was gliding through the air, 200 or 300 feet up, in a paraglider harness, with a long tow rope dangling uselessly between his legs. And a flock of some sort of birds was flying fighter-escort of this unlikely twosome…
… And we (the listeners) don’t know whether Mort and Bill are going to augur into the Atlantic Ocean at any moment, or whether they manage to cruise within sight of land (or maybe a convenient US navy aircraft carrier), or (just maybe) Jimmy Buffett arrives back en scene at the last minute (with a welcome cooler-full of margaritas) (or at least a cold pitcher of Kool-Aid) and rescues them with that long boat hook of his.
… We do know that Bill and Mort survived.
Otherwise Suzie and Butch and I wouldn’t be standing outside this newly-scrubbed dilapidated mansion some in the Tidewater area of Virginia, waiting for aforesaid-Bill to finish off this rather lengthy tale.
Which seemed, truth be told, far from over.
“But they weren’t, were they?” asked Butch. “Migrating? They led you to safety?
Barnacle Bill nodded. “But not right away… Or soon enough, as far as I was concerned.”
He shivered, suddenly. His whole body seemed to shake with the awful recollection.
“I was flippin’ terrified. Mort’s having the time of his life, zooming around up there in the sky, even with me hanging onto his waist for dear life.
“And of course the birds were in their element. I mean, they’ve got wings, right? They’re used to flying.
“But I am definitely not used to flying! And I swore, if I ever got out of this mess, that I’d never even look up at the sky. Much less ever consider getting on an airplane.”
Suzie nodded, feeling sympathetic. “They always want to put us in a crate, too,” she said. “It isn’t fair. I mean, The Network spends good money to buy us first-class tickets, and even then, the ticket-agent people think we belong in a cage.”
“In the cargo hold,” Butch agreed. “We should start a social-media movement.”
Barnacle Bill, temporarily distracted by this change of topic, concurred. “Seems like everybody else has a protest movement. Everybody else has a gripe, and then it goes viral. Maybe we should organize something.”
“I’d be more willing to protest dry food than airplane cages,” Suzie said. “I know, I started this, but you can always talk your way out of a cage.”
“Well, sure, we can,” Butch said. “We’re celebrities.”
“And seriously,” Bill said to Suzie, “when’s the last time you actually had to eat dry dog food?”
“Well…” Suzie mumbled.
“We’re getting off-track,” I interrupted. “Can we please hear the rest of Bill’s story?” I glanced around the yard, then unconsciously lowered my voice. “We’ve gotta wake all these dogs up pretty soon, too. I mean, we can’t leave ‘em out here all night.”
Butch concurred. “Yeah, let’s wrap up this Key West flying-boat story… I almost can’t remember why we’re even hearing it.”
“It’s because Bill said that that’s where he met the guy who owns this house,” Suzie explained, sounding exasperated. I could empathize with her, but Butch has always had an attention-span problem. (Correction: He’s “attention-span-challenged. Much like my piano playing. I’m often accused of being pianistically challenged.)
“Oh, yeah,” Butch nodded. He turned to Barnacle Bill. “If you met this guy Mort down in the Keys, why’s he have an abandoned house here?”
Bill stiffened. “It doesn’t look abandoned, now. I think we cleaned it up pretty good…” He sniffed. “… While you were off… shopping.”
“Okay, okay,” I said, trying to quell the unrest. I looked at Bill. “Let’s just hear the rest of the story.”
But Bill had now decided that his feelings were hurt. To his way of looking at things, he and the rest of The Team (Maggie, Howie, Fifi, Mona Lassie, and Terry) had worked themselves “to the bone” cleaning this joint up, while Suzie and Butch and I’d driven off to “go shopping.” Like “going shopping” was something I thought of as great fun.
Well, “going shopping,” much as I didn’t absolutely delight in doing it, really did beat “cleaning an old house from top to bottom.” I had to admit that. Cleaning pretty much anything had never been high on my list of favorite activities. (Even, say, cleaning golf clubs, which I could certainly understand the value of, if not actually relish doing.)
So now I had to settle Barnacle Bill’s hurt feelings. Had to get him back in story-teller mode. Make him feel that we were “all ears.” That we couldn’t wait to hear how this story ended.
Cuz for the moment, all we knew was that he had his front legs wrapped around this guy Mort’s waist. And Mort was gliding through the air, 200 or 300 feet up, in a paraglider harness, with a long tow rope dangling uselessly between his legs. And a flock of some sort of birds was flying fighter-escort of this unlikely twosome…
… And we (the listeners) don’t know whether Mort and Bill are going to augur into the Atlantic Ocean at any moment, or whether they manage to cruise within sight of land (or maybe a convenient US navy aircraft carrier), or (just maybe) Jimmy Buffett arrives back en scene at the last minute (with a welcome cooler-full of margaritas) (or at least a cold pitcher of Kool-Aid) and rescues them with that long boat hook of his.
… We do know that Bill and Mort survived.
Otherwise Suzie and Butch and I wouldn’t be standing outside this newly-scrubbed dilapidated mansion some in the Tidewater area of Virginia, waiting for aforesaid-Bill to finish off this rather lengthy tale.
Which seemed, truth be told, far from over.
July 7, 2020
“Okay,” Barnacle Bill conceded. “I can explain it all… I know this sounds unlikely, but stuff like this used to happen to me all the time. I could write a book… Actually, it’d probably have to be a whole set, cuz there’d be too many stories to fit in just one book.”
Butch growled a little. “Well, let’s just hear the end to this one, and then we can spend some time considering whether we want to subscribe to the whole set.”
Suzie laughed her little bright laugh. “I think he’s just trying to say: Can we cut to the chase?”
“Okay, okay,” Bill said, waving his front paws. “I’m getting’ there.”
And then he stopped.
So we waited.
And after a few moments, he took and deep breath… And continued.
“Okay. So. Mort and I were sailing at a good 20 knots, as far as I could guess, and eventually the birds said goodbye and veered off to the west (as far as I could figure), and I thought maybe we should be heading that way, too. But Mort seemed to be having so much fun swooping around up there—and we seemed to be in no danger of suddenly losing elevation, though I couldn’t hang onto Mort’s bulging waist forever—that I didn’t want to interrupt his fun by suggesting we start looking for a landing place. Or at least try to locate ‘land.’
“You do know how to swim, right?” asked Suzie.
“Of course I know how to swim,” Bill answered. “But there’s swimming in a pool, and then there’s swimming in the ocean. And any experienced seaman will tell you: you don’t want to have to swim your way out of trouble. Finding dry land is always the better option.”
“Sounds good to me,” Butch concurred. “Now about this guy Mort—“
“I’m coming to that,” Bill said, quite calmly. He straightened himself back up and continued.
“So there we were, flying right, but then Mort admitted that his arms were starting to get tired, so he was gonna have to find a place to set us down. He couldn’t do it too soon, as far as I was concerned, but I had to play along, acting all la-di-da about it. Like I did this every day: dangle by my frightened paws from another guy’s belt.
“Whatever happened to those birds?” Suzie wanted to know. She had a point.
“Well, that’s just it,” Bill nodded. “Luckily for us—and I do mean luckily—those birds didn’t seem in any rush to find dry land, either, so I could spy them way off in the distance, off to what I thought must be the west, and so I advised Mort to try catching up with them. They certainly would have no intention of staying up in the air, out here over the ocean, all night long.”
“And so, obviously, you and Mort survived,” Suzie summarized, trying to move the story along.
Which may have seemed a bit heartless—to Bill.
Which it did, judging from his tone when he replied. “Yes, we did survive. But it was the most amazing thing.”
Sure it was.
“No, really,” he insisted. “See, we never did manage to catch up to the birds. They just vanished, a few minutes later, over the horizon. And then Mort said something I’d been dreading hearing.”
“What?” asked Butch. “You ran out of gas?”
You know how terriers have these shaggy eyebrows? Well, Barnacle Bill has super-shaggy eyebrows, and when he wants to give you an angry, evil glare, it comes from underneath that Ancient Mariner-style craggy brow of his. And so right now, he was transmitting one of those baleful glares at our friend Butch.
“No, we did not run out of gas,” he frowned. “But what Mort felt compelled to divulge was that-- just in case I hadn’t noticed it—we were losing altitude.”
Oh. Yeah, that would be a major concern, if you were hundreds of feet above the Atlantic Ocean and you weren’t in a gas-powered aircraft.
“And there was no land in sight?” Suzie asked.
“Well, I’d been spending most of the flight with my face mashed against the front of Mort’s shirt, so I certainly didn’t see any… land. (I did notice that his shirt was missing a button, but that didn’t seem terribly important, given the circumstances.) What I did hear, after a few seconds, was Mort’s voice saying, half to himself, ‘Well, would you look at that!’”
[Ed. note: Following up on the Kool-Aid photo, I’m going to use up my one-and-only Kool-Aid-glasses-with-drinking-straws cartoon here. It’s not really relevant, but what the heck?]
“Okay,” Barnacle Bill conceded. “I can explain it all… I know this sounds unlikely, but stuff like this used to happen to me all the time. I could write a book… Actually, it’d probably have to be a whole set, cuz there’d be too many stories to fit in just one book.”
Butch growled a little. “Well, let’s just hear the end to this one, and then we can spend some time considering whether we want to subscribe to the whole set.”
Suzie laughed her little bright laugh. “I think he’s just trying to say: Can we cut to the chase?”
“Okay, okay,” Bill said, waving his front paws. “I’m getting’ there.”
And then he stopped.
So we waited.
And after a few moments, he took and deep breath… And continued.
“Okay. So. Mort and I were sailing at a good 20 knots, as far as I could guess, and eventually the birds said goodbye and veered off to the west (as far as I could figure), and I thought maybe we should be heading that way, too. But Mort seemed to be having so much fun swooping around up there—and we seemed to be in no danger of suddenly losing elevation, though I couldn’t hang onto Mort’s bulging waist forever—that I didn’t want to interrupt his fun by suggesting we start looking for a landing place. Or at least try to locate ‘land.’
“You do know how to swim, right?” asked Suzie.
“Of course I know how to swim,” Bill answered. “But there’s swimming in a pool, and then there’s swimming in the ocean. And any experienced seaman will tell you: you don’t want to have to swim your way out of trouble. Finding dry land is always the better option.”
“Sounds good to me,” Butch concurred. “Now about this guy Mort—“
“I’m coming to that,” Bill said, quite calmly. He straightened himself back up and continued.
“So there we were, flying right, but then Mort admitted that his arms were starting to get tired, so he was gonna have to find a place to set us down. He couldn’t do it too soon, as far as I was concerned, but I had to play along, acting all la-di-da about it. Like I did this every day: dangle by my frightened paws from another guy’s belt.
“Whatever happened to those birds?” Suzie wanted to know. She had a point.
“Well, that’s just it,” Bill nodded. “Luckily for us—and I do mean luckily—those birds didn’t seem in any rush to find dry land, either, so I could spy them way off in the distance, off to what I thought must be the west, and so I advised Mort to try catching up with them. They certainly would have no intention of staying up in the air, out here over the ocean, all night long.”
“And so, obviously, you and Mort survived,” Suzie summarized, trying to move the story along.
Which may have seemed a bit heartless—to Bill.
Which it did, judging from his tone when he replied. “Yes, we did survive. But it was the most amazing thing.”
Sure it was.
“No, really,” he insisted. “See, we never did manage to catch up to the birds. They just vanished, a few minutes later, over the horizon. And then Mort said something I’d been dreading hearing.”
“What?” asked Butch. “You ran out of gas?”
You know how terriers have these shaggy eyebrows? Well, Barnacle Bill has super-shaggy eyebrows, and when he wants to give you an angry, evil glare, it comes from underneath that Ancient Mariner-style craggy brow of his. And so right now, he was transmitting one of those baleful glares at our friend Butch.
“No, we did not run out of gas,” he frowned. “But what Mort felt compelled to divulge was that-- just in case I hadn’t noticed it—we were losing altitude.”
Oh. Yeah, that would be a major concern, if you were hundreds of feet above the Atlantic Ocean and you weren’t in a gas-powered aircraft.
“And there was no land in sight?” Suzie asked.
“Well, I’d been spending most of the flight with my face mashed against the front of Mort’s shirt, so I certainly didn’t see any… land. (I did notice that his shirt was missing a button, but that didn’t seem terribly important, given the circumstances.) What I did hear, after a few seconds, was Mort’s voice saying, half to himself, ‘Well, would you look at that!’”
[Ed. note: Following up on the Kool-Aid photo, I’m going to use up my one-and-only Kool-Aid-glasses-with-drinking-straws cartoon here. It’s not really relevant, but what the heck?]
July 8, 2020
So after Mort said that, “Would you look at that,” I peeled myself away from his stomach, turned around, and looked down. Which was pretty easy, because we actually were heading down already. As mort had said, we were losing altitude, although (thankfully) not too fast. (And I was aware, like it or not, that “we” might not have been losing altitude at all if it had been just Mort by himself, without my added weight.)
Looking down, at first I didn’t see anything. Nothing at all. Mort spun me in the other direction, and then I saw it: the biggest, sleekest, shiniest, cleanest “pleasure” yacht I’d ever set eyes on.
And lying on the fantail was a very attractive woman, wearing the skimpiest bikini you could imagine, along with some big jangly bracelets that reflected the setting sun as she raised her hand to shield her eyes, so she could watch us swooping down in her direction.
There was absolutely nothing else, in any direction, to see. So that if it hadn’t been for this formidable-looking boat, we would’ve been splashing down any minute in a very broad and deserted ocean, wherein we would’ve been swamped by all this paraglider gear and—pretty darned soon—have drowned. Permanently. As in: Davy Jones’ locker.
But today, that was not to be. Today was our lucky day!
We were saved!
All we had to do was skim over in the direction of this monster yacht, ditch the paraglider harness and sail, plunge into the water, and wait to be rescued. Buy, I hoped she had that BBQ grill heated up. I was gonna be hungry after all that flying around.
It was over, almost before I knew Mort had dumped us. In fact, it happened so fast, I got a pretty deep drink of that salty Florida Keys water, which set me to coughing something fierce. I almost—almost—forgot to dog-paddle, and that could’ve been my undoing. But fortunately we’d landed no more than 100 feet from the yacht, and Mort was pretty darned expert at hauling my panicked butt over to the boat—so fast that the lady’s crew didn’t even have time to lower the dinghy.
(Dinghy. Right. The damned thing probably cost more than the Tour Bus. Heck, it probably cost 100 bucks in jet fuel just to crank it up… Which is maybe why they weren’t in any rush to lower it into the water, in the first place.)
Well, needless to say, we got helped on board by some amazingly strong crewmen, and the lady seemed really really happy to have helped us survive, and before we knew it, we got sent below to take much-needed showers, and stuffed into some pretty plush bathrobes, and then ushered back up on deck, so we could get something to eat and drink.
The rest of the afternoon and early evening was like a sun-dazed sailor’s dream. We were wined and dined, and cooed over, and begged to tell our story over and over. The only thing that could’ve made it better would’ve been if there’s been some pretty female pooches on board, but you can’t ask for everything.
The most amazing part, really, aside from being alive, was that this lady (her name was Shirley) decided then and there (or sometime during the night) that she and my old buddy Mort were destined to be soulmates for life.
Destiny! Go figure.
Needless to say, Mort wasn’t going to argue with his good fortune. He’d lost his paraglider gear, but judging by the champagne and the caviar and the gold-plated handles on the bathroom doors, I didn’t think money was an issue aboard “The Lonesome Belle.” All Mort had to do was make sure that the “Belle” didn’t start feeling “Lonesome” again. Everything else, I was sure, would work out fine.
So after Mort said that, “Would you look at that,” I peeled myself away from his stomach, turned around, and looked down. Which was pretty easy, because we actually were heading down already. As mort had said, we were losing altitude, although (thankfully) not too fast. (And I was aware, like it or not, that “we” might not have been losing altitude at all if it had been just Mort by himself, without my added weight.)
Looking down, at first I didn’t see anything. Nothing at all. Mort spun me in the other direction, and then I saw it: the biggest, sleekest, shiniest, cleanest “pleasure” yacht I’d ever set eyes on.
And lying on the fantail was a very attractive woman, wearing the skimpiest bikini you could imagine, along with some big jangly bracelets that reflected the setting sun as she raised her hand to shield her eyes, so she could watch us swooping down in her direction.
There was absolutely nothing else, in any direction, to see. So that if it hadn’t been for this formidable-looking boat, we would’ve been splashing down any minute in a very broad and deserted ocean, wherein we would’ve been swamped by all this paraglider gear and—pretty darned soon—have drowned. Permanently. As in: Davy Jones’ locker.
But today, that was not to be. Today was our lucky day!
We were saved!
All we had to do was skim over in the direction of this monster yacht, ditch the paraglider harness and sail, plunge into the water, and wait to be rescued. Buy, I hoped she had that BBQ grill heated up. I was gonna be hungry after all that flying around.
It was over, almost before I knew Mort had dumped us. In fact, it happened so fast, I got a pretty deep drink of that salty Florida Keys water, which set me to coughing something fierce. I almost—almost—forgot to dog-paddle, and that could’ve been my undoing. But fortunately we’d landed no more than 100 feet from the yacht, and Mort was pretty darned expert at hauling my panicked butt over to the boat—so fast that the lady’s crew didn’t even have time to lower the dinghy.
(Dinghy. Right. The damned thing probably cost more than the Tour Bus. Heck, it probably cost 100 bucks in jet fuel just to crank it up… Which is maybe why they weren’t in any rush to lower it into the water, in the first place.)
Well, needless to say, we got helped on board by some amazingly strong crewmen, and the lady seemed really really happy to have helped us survive, and before we knew it, we got sent below to take much-needed showers, and stuffed into some pretty plush bathrobes, and then ushered back up on deck, so we could get something to eat and drink.
The rest of the afternoon and early evening was like a sun-dazed sailor’s dream. We were wined and dined, and cooed over, and begged to tell our story over and over. The only thing that could’ve made it better would’ve been if there’s been some pretty female pooches on board, but you can’t ask for everything.
The most amazing part, really, aside from being alive, was that this lady (her name was Shirley) decided then and there (or sometime during the night) that she and my old buddy Mort were destined to be soulmates for life.
Destiny! Go figure.
Needless to say, Mort wasn’t going to argue with his good fortune. He’d lost his paraglider gear, but judging by the champagne and the caviar and the gold-plated handles on the bathroom doors, I didn’t think money was an issue aboard “The Lonesome Belle.” All Mort had to do was make sure that the “Belle” didn’t start feeling “Lonesome” again. Everything else, I was sure, would work out fine.
July 9, 2020
Suzie didn’t seem particularly thrilled with the direction this story was taken.
“So he meets this ravishing woman who’s filthy rich,” she frowned, “and he lets her pander him and pay his way forever and ever, and you think that’s a great ending?”
Barnacle Bill laughed. “Not at all. That’s what makes this so great, and why Mort thinks that I saved his life.”
Now it was Butch’s turn to frown. “How would you save his life? Talk him out of such a sweet deal?”
“No,” Bill smiled. “That’s the great part. I didn’t have to do anything. Mort’s grateful to me, just cuz if I hadn’t been hanging onto him for dear life, up there when he was paragliding, he wouldn’t have been losing altitude and so he would’ve just kept flying until he got back to Key West. But with me adding all my considerable weight to our airborne ‘package,’ he had to find a safe place to set us down.”
Suzie piped up, scornfully. “Any port in a storm, I think you call it,” she said.
“Exactly!” Bill nodded. “Only, in this case, the great thing turned out to be…”
He paused, trying to build the suspense.
“The great thing was, Shirley was dead broke. Penniless. Turned out (and she confided in Mort right away. Well, the next morning. After they’d decided that they’d been destined for each other)… turned out she didn’t own the boat. Pardon me: the yacht. Turned out, she was the nanny. And she hated her job. She hated the kid. She hated the kid’s mother even more. (The mother and the kid had been dropped off, that morning, to go shopping. Shopping. In Miami. Of course. Leaving Shirley all alone, and desperately unhappy, when Mort and I came sailing into her life.)
“She’d actually been planning to jump ship whenever they berthed this baby somewhere a bit classier than Miami. Maybe she’d been planning on stealing the silverware or the spinning off in the turbocharged dinghy and selling that, but then Mort and I came along and as far as she was concerned, then everything was different.”
“But you and Mort didn’t even know each other,” Butch reminded us. “Right?”
“Right,” Bill nodded. “He’d just been flying by when his tow rope snagged on the bottom of Jimmy’s skiff.”
“And whatever happened to Jimmy” Suzie asked.
“I have no idea,” Bill replied. “I never saw him again.”
“Ever?” I asked.
“Ever,” Bill nodded. “Never ever. Never even heard from him. You know: asking to see if I was still alive, or anything.” He thought over the implications of that for a moment, then shrugged. “But Jimmy Buffett’s a stand-up guy. So he must’ve known that I was heading into a vastly-improved destiny, when I was flying out of his life.” He shook his head. “Yeah. I’m sure: If he’d thought that I was in any sort of danger, he would’ve at least put out the word. You know: Parrot-talk gets around. On the grapevine, so to speak.”
“And that’s the story of Mort and Shirley?” Suzie wanted to know.
“Yeah,” Bill answered. “Mort realized, almost right away, that it would’ve sucked if Shirley had actually been the rich b—ch owner of that fabulous yacht. Having them be penniless together made their loves so much better. And they’re still together, and totally happy, and they both credit me for making it all happen.”
“So you ditched the yacht?” Butch asked.
“Well, we had to crew run us up to Cocoa Beach, before they had to go pick up the lady and her kid. I’ve got some old fishing buddies, have a day-trip charter business. Take tourists out on the water and watch the rockets go up from Canaveral… So we hung out there for a couple of days, before I decided that I was very much the third wheel in Mort and Shirley’s dune buggy.”
Suzie didn’t seem particularly thrilled with the direction this story was taken.
“So he meets this ravishing woman who’s filthy rich,” she frowned, “and he lets her pander him and pay his way forever and ever, and you think that’s a great ending?”
Barnacle Bill laughed. “Not at all. That’s what makes this so great, and why Mort thinks that I saved his life.”
Now it was Butch’s turn to frown. “How would you save his life? Talk him out of such a sweet deal?”
“No,” Bill smiled. “That’s the great part. I didn’t have to do anything. Mort’s grateful to me, just cuz if I hadn’t been hanging onto him for dear life, up there when he was paragliding, he wouldn’t have been losing altitude and so he would’ve just kept flying until he got back to Key West. But with me adding all my considerable weight to our airborne ‘package,’ he had to find a safe place to set us down.”
Suzie piped up, scornfully. “Any port in a storm, I think you call it,” she said.
“Exactly!” Bill nodded. “Only, in this case, the great thing turned out to be…”
He paused, trying to build the suspense.
“The great thing was, Shirley was dead broke. Penniless. Turned out (and she confided in Mort right away. Well, the next morning. After they’d decided that they’d been destined for each other)… turned out she didn’t own the boat. Pardon me: the yacht. Turned out, she was the nanny. And she hated her job. She hated the kid. She hated the kid’s mother even more. (The mother and the kid had been dropped off, that morning, to go shopping. Shopping. In Miami. Of course. Leaving Shirley all alone, and desperately unhappy, when Mort and I came sailing into her life.)
“She’d actually been planning to jump ship whenever they berthed this baby somewhere a bit classier than Miami. Maybe she’d been planning on stealing the silverware or the spinning off in the turbocharged dinghy and selling that, but then Mort and I came along and as far as she was concerned, then everything was different.”
“But you and Mort didn’t even know each other,” Butch reminded us. “Right?”
“Right,” Bill nodded. “He’d just been flying by when his tow rope snagged on the bottom of Jimmy’s skiff.”
“And whatever happened to Jimmy” Suzie asked.
“I have no idea,” Bill replied. “I never saw him again.”
“Ever?” I asked.
“Ever,” Bill nodded. “Never ever. Never even heard from him. You know: asking to see if I was still alive, or anything.” He thought over the implications of that for a moment, then shrugged. “But Jimmy Buffett’s a stand-up guy. So he must’ve known that I was heading into a vastly-improved destiny, when I was flying out of his life.” He shook his head. “Yeah. I’m sure: If he’d thought that I was in any sort of danger, he would’ve at least put out the word. You know: Parrot-talk gets around. On the grapevine, so to speak.”
“And that’s the story of Mort and Shirley?” Suzie wanted to know.
“Yeah,” Bill answered. “Mort realized, almost right away, that it would’ve sucked if Shirley had actually been the rich b—ch owner of that fabulous yacht. Having them be penniless together made their loves so much better. And they’re still together, and totally happy, and they both credit me for making it all happen.”
“So you ditched the yacht?” Butch asked.
“Well, we had to crew run us up to Cocoa Beach, before they had to go pick up the lady and her kid. I’ve got some old fishing buddies, have a day-trip charter business. Take tourists out on the water and watch the rockets go up from Canaveral… So we hung out there for a couple of days, before I decided that I was very much the third wheel in Mort and Shirley’s dune buggy.”
July 10, 2020
“And so now they’re coming to visit?” Suzie asked, hoping to speed along Barnacle Bill’s story of Mort and Shirley.
“Right,” Bill nodded. “Only: no. I mean, it’s not Mort and Shirley who are coming. It’s Mort and an old Army buddy of his named Charlie. I told you that, right? They served together in the Army. 82nd Airborne.”
“You told us that,” I muttered. (How was this moving the story along?)
“Right,” Bill nodded again. “And like I said, Mort called me up. My phone rang. And I answered it. And he told me that the Sheriff’s office down here had called Shirley (cuz she’s the one who owns this place. She inherited it right after she and Mort got hitched. From some aunt she hardly knew. And she and Mort—get this—they’ve never even seen this place! They’re still living down somewhere around Fort Lauderdale)… Anyway, the Sheriff called Shirley cuz he wanted to know if we—meaning us—actually had permission to be staying here. And Shirley said, ‘Hell yes! Ol’ Barnacle Bill the Sailor saved my hubby’s skin. He sure-enough can stay there!’ And that’s when Mort called me and told me he and Charlie were gonna be droppin’ in.”
I was once again glancing around the yard, admiring how trimmed-up and ship-shape it looked, compared to the rundown semi-jungle we’d seen when we first arrived, so I couldn’t help asking, “So after Mort called, was that when you got the idea to spruce the place up?”
To which Bill brightened up. “Yes, indeed! I thought it’d be a nice idea, for the first time he’d ever laid eyes on the place, to have it look a bit more presentable than it’d been looking this morning… I mean, especially after last night’s pool party, and then with all of us sleeping and drooling all over the living room, and the kitchen was a sight, after breakfast this morning.
“So I got together with Howie, and we put out the word in the neighborhood that we were gonna have another surf-and-splash party tonight, but first everyone was gonna have to pitch in and clean the place up for the owners, who were arriving any day now and might sic ‘Animal Control’ on the whole lot of us if we didn’t prove ourselves worthy of being responsible guests.
“I think maybe the hint that Fifi and Suzie might put in an appearance at tonight’s swim-fest maybe did the trick, when it came to coaxing the local young hotheads to lend a paw. I think they’re all looking forward to seeing some real swell dames running around soaking wet.”
He gave Suzie a sideways look, and she moaned as if to say, “How pathetic.”
But Bill didn’t seem to be fazed. He looked at me as if he should get nominated for a Nobel Prize or something, for dreaming up this scheme to get this dilapidated mansion looking half-livable, and in just one afternoon.
“So why’s everybody asleep?” Butch still wanted to know.
“Oh,” Bill whispered. “Well… Howie cooked something up… You know, for lunch… While we were all working… It was some kinda sandwich meat… and chili, I remember… and a bunch of other stuff… on Kaiser rolls… and it sure tasted good… But, obviously, there must’ve been something in it that doesn’t agree well dogs, cuz one by one, it seemed like, we all started to drop off… Nobody was moaning, or anything. It wasn’t like we had stomach aches. It was more like… we just really needed a nap… A good long nap.”
Bill looked around at the 2 dozen or so sleeping critters and shrugged.
“I guess they’ll all come out of it eventually.” He brightened up. “Look at me! I woke up!”
I sighed. Okay. Enough of the explanations. We could just wait for everyone else to wake back up. Maybe this would be a good time for me to take a dip in the pool. Get in a few laps without getting half-drowned by a pack of splashing dogs.
But first I had to ask Bill, “So did this guy Mort tell you when he was planning to arrive?”
Bill shook his head. “He was kinda vague. I think, if I had to guess, he meant to say Sunday night, if everything went ‘according to plan.’ But he and Charlie had a few what-he-called ‘logistical issues’ to iron out, before they got here, so he wasn’t completely sure.”
I sighed again. “So okay. We’ll just assume it’ll be Sunday night. And now that you’ve gotten the place all vacuumed and whitewashed and feather-dusted, I hope we can keep it looking this tidy for the next couple of days.”
I looked over at the Tour Bus, which was taking up a lot of room in the driveway. Maybe, if Mort and Charlie were driving here, we’d better move The Bus.
“Did Mort say what they were driving?” I asked Bill.
“Nope. He just said they they’d be ‘dropping in.’ And you know: I told you: They were 82nd Airborne. And those guys are kinda crazy. So I guess ‘dropping in’ could be pretty-much anything.”
“And so now they’re coming to visit?” Suzie asked, hoping to speed along Barnacle Bill’s story of Mort and Shirley.
“Right,” Bill nodded. “Only: no. I mean, it’s not Mort and Shirley who are coming. It’s Mort and an old Army buddy of his named Charlie. I told you that, right? They served together in the Army. 82nd Airborne.”
“You told us that,” I muttered. (How was this moving the story along?)
“Right,” Bill nodded again. “And like I said, Mort called me up. My phone rang. And I answered it. And he told me that the Sheriff’s office down here had called Shirley (cuz she’s the one who owns this place. She inherited it right after she and Mort got hitched. From some aunt she hardly knew. And she and Mort—get this—they’ve never even seen this place! They’re still living down somewhere around Fort Lauderdale)… Anyway, the Sheriff called Shirley cuz he wanted to know if we—meaning us—actually had permission to be staying here. And Shirley said, ‘Hell yes! Ol’ Barnacle Bill the Sailor saved my hubby’s skin. He sure-enough can stay there!’ And that’s when Mort called me and told me he and Charlie were gonna be droppin’ in.”
I was once again glancing around the yard, admiring how trimmed-up and ship-shape it looked, compared to the rundown semi-jungle we’d seen when we first arrived, so I couldn’t help asking, “So after Mort called, was that when you got the idea to spruce the place up?”
To which Bill brightened up. “Yes, indeed! I thought it’d be a nice idea, for the first time he’d ever laid eyes on the place, to have it look a bit more presentable than it’d been looking this morning… I mean, especially after last night’s pool party, and then with all of us sleeping and drooling all over the living room, and the kitchen was a sight, after breakfast this morning.
“So I got together with Howie, and we put out the word in the neighborhood that we were gonna have another surf-and-splash party tonight, but first everyone was gonna have to pitch in and clean the place up for the owners, who were arriving any day now and might sic ‘Animal Control’ on the whole lot of us if we didn’t prove ourselves worthy of being responsible guests.
“I think maybe the hint that Fifi and Suzie might put in an appearance at tonight’s swim-fest maybe did the trick, when it came to coaxing the local young hotheads to lend a paw. I think they’re all looking forward to seeing some real swell dames running around soaking wet.”
He gave Suzie a sideways look, and she moaned as if to say, “How pathetic.”
But Bill didn’t seem to be fazed. He looked at me as if he should get nominated for a Nobel Prize or something, for dreaming up this scheme to get this dilapidated mansion looking half-livable, and in just one afternoon.
“So why’s everybody asleep?” Butch still wanted to know.
“Oh,” Bill whispered. “Well… Howie cooked something up… You know, for lunch… While we were all working… It was some kinda sandwich meat… and chili, I remember… and a bunch of other stuff… on Kaiser rolls… and it sure tasted good… But, obviously, there must’ve been something in it that doesn’t agree well dogs, cuz one by one, it seemed like, we all started to drop off… Nobody was moaning, or anything. It wasn’t like we had stomach aches. It was more like… we just really needed a nap… A good long nap.”
Bill looked around at the 2 dozen or so sleeping critters and shrugged.
“I guess they’ll all come out of it eventually.” He brightened up. “Look at me! I woke up!”
I sighed. Okay. Enough of the explanations. We could just wait for everyone else to wake back up. Maybe this would be a good time for me to take a dip in the pool. Get in a few laps without getting half-drowned by a pack of splashing dogs.
But first I had to ask Bill, “So did this guy Mort tell you when he was planning to arrive?”
Bill shook his head. “He was kinda vague. I think, if I had to guess, he meant to say Sunday night, if everything went ‘according to plan.’ But he and Charlie had a few what-he-called ‘logistical issues’ to iron out, before they got here, so he wasn’t completely sure.”
I sighed again. “So okay. We’ll just assume it’ll be Sunday night. And now that you’ve gotten the place all vacuumed and whitewashed and feather-dusted, I hope we can keep it looking this tidy for the next couple of days.”
I looked over at the Tour Bus, which was taking up a lot of room in the driveway. Maybe, if Mort and Charlie were driving here, we’d better move The Bus.
“Did Mort say what they were driving?” I asked Bill.
“Nope. He just said they they’d be ‘dropping in.’ And you know: I told you: They were 82nd Airborne. And those guys are kinda crazy. So I guess ‘dropping in’ could be pretty-much anything.”
July 13, 2020
Okay. So Mort and his friend Charlie would be arriving on Sunday. Maybe. It didn’t really matter. I was rather hoping to move on to another topic. After all, we had a sprawling yard full of sprawling, sleeping dogs. Somehow we had to wake them up, get everybody fed (again), and hopefully tucked into a comfy bed—somewhere indoors. We didn’t seem to have any neighbors, at least real close by, but I didn’t want people in the area thinking that we’d just moved in and turned the place into a public campground.
But before we (hopefully) moved on to more immediate concerns than Mort and Charlie’s arrival, I had to back up for just a moment.
If you recall: When Suzie, Butch, and I had returned from our shopping jaunt to the grocery store, during which Suzie had ordered all the various food stuff and accessories she’d be needing for tomorrow’s cooking demonstration at the shopping mall, we’d been met by Barnacle Bill, the only dog who was awake, and he informed us (with a real long story) that the (supposed) owner of the house we were inhabiting—the lawn that we were at this instant standing on—was arriving the day after tomorrow.
Okay. So far, so good. He’d also said something that needed a bit of clarification.
“Bill,” I said, trying to ease into this line of questioning. “When Suzie and Butch and I first got back and you told us that Mort was coming, you said something about how this could maybe be a real good thing. I mean, about Mort and his friend coming here. I think the word you used was ‘potentially’…” I gave Bill one of my serious looks. “Would you care to elaborate on that for us?”
Silence. From Bill.
Suzie and Butch just looked at me. Apparently they’d either forgotten, or they hadn’t thought Bill’s comment important. (Of course, they’d been listening to his very-long shaggy-dog paraglider story for what seemed like a full hour, so I could understand them having lost interest in something he’d said at the very beginning.)
But silence wasn’t getting me answers, so I had to persist.
I looked at Bill again. “You said it was the friend’s showing up that might, potentially, be propitious.”
Barnacle Bill looked a little embarrassed. He looked down, shuffled his front paws a bit.
“I’m pretty sure I didn’t use the word ‘propitious,” he mumbled.
“Well, maybe not, but you did make it sound like this guy—Charlie, you said his name is—might be… potentially… somebody good to have come visit us.”
“I said that?” Bill asked me.
“Yeah,” I answered. “More or less.”
I glanced at Suzie and Butch, but they seemed mystified as to why I was even asking Bill about this guy Charlie.
“So…” I continued, looking back at Bill, “is there any reason why this guy Charlie should be someone we’re putting the welcome mat out for?”
“Oh!” Bill half-yelped. He sat up straight. “Yeah! Now I remember!”
That reaction got Suzie and Butch’s attention. Now they were all ears.
“And?” I prodded.
“Yeah!” Bill yelped again. “I clean forgot! Yeah! This guy Charlie… Like I said, he and Mort were in the Army together.”
“Yeah,” I nodded. “You said that. 82nd Airborne. So, are they gonna teach us to sky-dive or something?”
“No,” Bill laughed. “I mean, I guess they could. If we wanted to learn. I don’t know how long they’re gonna be here for. Like I said, Mort was kinda vague, other than saying that they were gonna be coming.”
“Fine,” I said, not willing to let this go. “But there must’ve been some reason—“
“Yeah,” Bill nodded enthusiastically. Then he suddenly turned quiet. Like something had just occurred to him. Maybe something he shouldn’t mention… Something secret… Something bad…
Whatever it was, all of a sudden Bill didn’t want to talk about it. About Mort and Charlie.
I had to keep pestering.
“You said it might ‘potentially’ be a good thing,” I nagged. “Potentially good for just you, or for all of us?”
That got Suzie and Butch’s attention. Sometimes it’s amazing how playing the “team” card can work wonders.
And it changed Bill’s tune, too. He perked right up and said, “For all of us! Definitely!”
“Okay!” I agreed. Now we were getting somewhere. “Why?”
“Oh.” Bill slumped his shoulders a bit.
“Come one, Bill,” Suzie and Butch whined. “Out with it.”
“Okay,” Bill whimpered. “it’s just… Well, when you first asked what Mort and I had been talking about… on the phone… when he called…”
“YES?” from Suzie, Butch, and me. Pretty loudly.
“Well, I said ‘potentially.’ You know, I always like to look at the bright side… And when I was talking to Mort, he said he was bringing his old Army pal with him. And so I asked who Charlie was, exactly…”
“YES?” from Suzie, Butch, and me.
“And it turns out,” Bill continued, somewhat sheepishly, “well, it turns out—I don’t know whether this is true or not, you know. I mean, Mort said so, but he might just have said it, to have something to say…”
“YES?” from Suzie, Butch, and me.
“Well,” Bill half-mumbled, “what I think Mort said was: His friend Charlie’s a movie producer.”
…
Oh.
That, potentially, changed everything.
Okay. So Mort and his friend Charlie would be arriving on Sunday. Maybe. It didn’t really matter. I was rather hoping to move on to another topic. After all, we had a sprawling yard full of sprawling, sleeping dogs. Somehow we had to wake them up, get everybody fed (again), and hopefully tucked into a comfy bed—somewhere indoors. We didn’t seem to have any neighbors, at least real close by, but I didn’t want people in the area thinking that we’d just moved in and turned the place into a public campground.
But before we (hopefully) moved on to more immediate concerns than Mort and Charlie’s arrival, I had to back up for just a moment.
If you recall: When Suzie, Butch, and I had returned from our shopping jaunt to the grocery store, during which Suzie had ordered all the various food stuff and accessories she’d be needing for tomorrow’s cooking demonstration at the shopping mall, we’d been met by Barnacle Bill, the only dog who was awake, and he informed us (with a real long story) that the (supposed) owner of the house we were inhabiting—the lawn that we were at this instant standing on—was arriving the day after tomorrow.
Okay. So far, so good. He’d also said something that needed a bit of clarification.
“Bill,” I said, trying to ease into this line of questioning. “When Suzie and Butch and I first got back and you told us that Mort was coming, you said something about how this could maybe be a real good thing. I mean, about Mort and his friend coming here. I think the word you used was ‘potentially’…” I gave Bill one of my serious looks. “Would you care to elaborate on that for us?”
Silence. From Bill.
Suzie and Butch just looked at me. Apparently they’d either forgotten, or they hadn’t thought Bill’s comment important. (Of course, they’d been listening to his very-long shaggy-dog paraglider story for what seemed like a full hour, so I could understand them having lost interest in something he’d said at the very beginning.)
But silence wasn’t getting me answers, so I had to persist.
I looked at Bill again. “You said it was the friend’s showing up that might, potentially, be propitious.”
Barnacle Bill looked a little embarrassed. He looked down, shuffled his front paws a bit.
“I’m pretty sure I didn’t use the word ‘propitious,” he mumbled.
“Well, maybe not, but you did make it sound like this guy—Charlie, you said his name is—might be… potentially… somebody good to have come visit us.”
“I said that?” Bill asked me.
“Yeah,” I answered. “More or less.”
I glanced at Suzie and Butch, but they seemed mystified as to why I was even asking Bill about this guy Charlie.
“So…” I continued, looking back at Bill, “is there any reason why this guy Charlie should be someone we’re putting the welcome mat out for?”
“Oh!” Bill half-yelped. He sat up straight. “Yeah! Now I remember!”
That reaction got Suzie and Butch’s attention. Now they were all ears.
“And?” I prodded.
“Yeah!” Bill yelped again. “I clean forgot! Yeah! This guy Charlie… Like I said, he and Mort were in the Army together.”
“Yeah,” I nodded. “You said that. 82nd Airborne. So, are they gonna teach us to sky-dive or something?”
“No,” Bill laughed. “I mean, I guess they could. If we wanted to learn. I don’t know how long they’re gonna be here for. Like I said, Mort was kinda vague, other than saying that they were gonna be coming.”
“Fine,” I said, not willing to let this go. “But there must’ve been some reason—“
“Yeah,” Bill nodded enthusiastically. Then he suddenly turned quiet. Like something had just occurred to him. Maybe something he shouldn’t mention… Something secret… Something bad…
Whatever it was, all of a sudden Bill didn’t want to talk about it. About Mort and Charlie.
I had to keep pestering.
“You said it might ‘potentially’ be a good thing,” I nagged. “Potentially good for just you, or for all of us?”
That got Suzie and Butch’s attention. Sometimes it’s amazing how playing the “team” card can work wonders.
And it changed Bill’s tune, too. He perked right up and said, “For all of us! Definitely!”
“Okay!” I agreed. Now we were getting somewhere. “Why?”
“Oh.” Bill slumped his shoulders a bit.
“Come one, Bill,” Suzie and Butch whined. “Out with it.”
“Okay,” Bill whimpered. “it’s just… Well, when you first asked what Mort and I had been talking about… on the phone… when he called…”
“YES?” from Suzie, Butch, and me. Pretty loudly.
“Well, I said ‘potentially.’ You know, I always like to look at the bright side… And when I was talking to Mort, he said he was bringing his old Army pal with him. And so I asked who Charlie was, exactly…”
“YES?” from Suzie, Butch, and me.
“And it turns out,” Bill continued, somewhat sheepishly, “well, it turns out—I don’t know whether this is true or not, you know. I mean, Mort said so, but he might just have said it, to have something to say…”
“YES?” from Suzie, Butch, and me.
“Well,” Bill half-mumbled, “what I think Mort said was: His friend Charlie’s a movie producer.”
…
Oh.
That, potentially, changed everything.
July 14, 2020
If you’ve been following The Dream Team (aka “my guys the TV celebrity chefs) for any length of time, you know that there are no two words in the entire English language that carry more of a wallop than the words “movie producer.”
The fascination my guys hold for someday becoming movie starts dates back to almost ancient times. Almost from the very beginning. (Which often seems centuries ago.)
We’ve never even won an Emmy, to put this in perspective. I mean, we’ve been doing these cooking shows—hugely popular—on The Chow Network for a long time now, but even so, none of us has ever won an Emmy.
And yet, they’ve all got their hearts set on winning an Oscar. Seriously.
They talk about “the movie” incessantly, whenever they think that I’m not around. They squabble over the 10-page treatment we all cobbled together months ago. They change this little detail, that little detail. They argue over who’s going to be the “leading man.” (For “leading lady” we’ve already decided it’s gonna be some pretty young beagle. Correction: some yet-to-be-discovered pretty young beagle.)
They all have this fantasy that some hot-shot producer is going to come swooping into our lives, demand to see the treatment, and decide—on the spot—that he wants to produce it. And then we’ll all re-locate to Beverly Hills and become MOVIE STARS. (Well, not me. I’m always going to be a behind-the-scenes guy… Which is fine.)
You’ve probably already picked up on the fact that these guys love to get noticed. As in: preening for any camera that’s pointed in their direction. Or asking whether that enthusiastic “journalist” wants to do an interview. (You’d get a kick out of watching them try to walk past a full-length mirror without stopping and striking a pose. It’s totally impossible for them. They have absolutely no self-control.)
So just imagine how much they want to become real movie stars. They probably dream about it. (Heck, they probably dream about giving their Oscar acceptance speeches.)
So it came as absolutely no surprise that, as soon as Barnacle Bill uttered the words “movie producer,” all those dogs that had been sound asleep ever since we’d returned from our shopping trip… every single one of those dogs who’d been sprawled out, dead-to-the-world… every single one of those dogs whom I couldn’t have awoken with a red-hot poker… every one of them jumped up and rushed over to Bill, tongues lolling anxiously out of their mouths, wanting to hear every last little detail of this impending visit…
… from a (supposed) movie producer. This friend of Mort’s. Whom none of us, save Bill, had ever met.
Now the massive cleanup campaign that had taken place in Suzie, Butch, and my absence came into a clearer view.
No doubt, while Suzie, Butch, and I had been at the grocery store ordering up all the food for tomorrow’s parking-lot cooking demonstration, Barnacle Bill had gotten that phone call from his old “paraglider buddy” Mort. Who told Bill that he and his old Army pal Charlie were going to be “dropping in” in a day or two. And somewhere in that conversation, Mort happened to mention that his old Army pal Charlie was a movie producer.
And no doubt, after Barnacle Bill got off the phone with Mort, he relayed the relevant information (the relevant information that big-time Hollywood producer was dropping by on this coming Sunday) to all the other guys, who obviously…
… flipped out!
As I would’ve expected. There’s nothing bigger, in their world, than the “potential” visit from a big-time Hollywood producer. Nothing.
So the first order of business had been: clean up the place.
At which they’d gone almost overboard. (Like I said, it looked like they’d even re-painted the shutters.)
I understand wanting to make a good first impression, but this seemed to be almost overdoing it.
But at least, now that Bill had repeated the magic words “movie producer” for me and Suzie and Butch, at least now everybody was back to being awake.
So I felt grateful for that.
If you’ve been following The Dream Team (aka “my guys the TV celebrity chefs) for any length of time, you know that there are no two words in the entire English language that carry more of a wallop than the words “movie producer.”
The fascination my guys hold for someday becoming movie starts dates back to almost ancient times. Almost from the very beginning. (Which often seems centuries ago.)
We’ve never even won an Emmy, to put this in perspective. I mean, we’ve been doing these cooking shows—hugely popular—on The Chow Network for a long time now, but even so, none of us has ever won an Emmy.
And yet, they’ve all got their hearts set on winning an Oscar. Seriously.
They talk about “the movie” incessantly, whenever they think that I’m not around. They squabble over the 10-page treatment we all cobbled together months ago. They change this little detail, that little detail. They argue over who’s going to be the “leading man.” (For “leading lady” we’ve already decided it’s gonna be some pretty young beagle. Correction: some yet-to-be-discovered pretty young beagle.)
They all have this fantasy that some hot-shot producer is going to come swooping into our lives, demand to see the treatment, and decide—on the spot—that he wants to produce it. And then we’ll all re-locate to Beverly Hills and become MOVIE STARS. (Well, not me. I’m always going to be a behind-the-scenes guy… Which is fine.)
You’ve probably already picked up on the fact that these guys love to get noticed. As in: preening for any camera that’s pointed in their direction. Or asking whether that enthusiastic “journalist” wants to do an interview. (You’d get a kick out of watching them try to walk past a full-length mirror without stopping and striking a pose. It’s totally impossible for them. They have absolutely no self-control.)
So just imagine how much they want to become real movie stars. They probably dream about it. (Heck, they probably dream about giving their Oscar acceptance speeches.)
So it came as absolutely no surprise that, as soon as Barnacle Bill uttered the words “movie producer,” all those dogs that had been sound asleep ever since we’d returned from our shopping trip… every single one of those dogs who’d been sprawled out, dead-to-the-world… every single one of those dogs whom I couldn’t have awoken with a red-hot poker… every one of them jumped up and rushed over to Bill, tongues lolling anxiously out of their mouths, wanting to hear every last little detail of this impending visit…
… from a (supposed) movie producer. This friend of Mort’s. Whom none of us, save Bill, had ever met.
Now the massive cleanup campaign that had taken place in Suzie, Butch, and my absence came into a clearer view.
No doubt, while Suzie, Butch, and I had been at the grocery store ordering up all the food for tomorrow’s parking-lot cooking demonstration, Barnacle Bill had gotten that phone call from his old “paraglider buddy” Mort. Who told Bill that he and his old Army pal Charlie were going to be “dropping in” in a day or two. And somewhere in that conversation, Mort happened to mention that his old Army pal Charlie was a movie producer.
And no doubt, after Barnacle Bill got off the phone with Mort, he relayed the relevant information (the relevant information that big-time Hollywood producer was dropping by on this coming Sunday) to all the other guys, who obviously…
… flipped out!
As I would’ve expected. There’s nothing bigger, in their world, than the “potential” visit from a big-time Hollywood producer. Nothing.
So the first order of business had been: clean up the place.
At which they’d gone almost overboard. (Like I said, it looked like they’d even re-painted the shutters.)
I understand wanting to make a good first impression, but this seemed to be almost overdoing it.
But at least, now that Bill had repeated the magic words “movie producer” for me and Suzie and Butch, at least now everybody was back to being awake.
So I felt grateful for that.
July 15, 2020
It would be difficult to over-emphasize the importance my guys place on the words “movie producer.” I know it sounds utterly crazy to anyone who’s not completely enveloped within the entertainment industry, but at least as far as my guys’ world-view goes, there’s a definite pecking order/ranking/coolness level in “the business,” and to their way of thinking, at least, being a “movie star” is the pinnacle at the top of the pyramid. The ne plus ultra, if you will, of entertainer coolness.
I remember a totally insane group discussion once, when I got so exasperated over these illogical aspirations of theirs—them wanting to become movie stars at almost any cost. It started out with me jokingly—jokingly—observing that they must at the very least see themselves as a few flights-of-stairs higher up the rungs of celebrity than TV soap-opera actors.
To which they agreed, but then went on to point out that they were definitely NOT a few rungs up compared to a TV talk-show host. (Or rather, compared to their personal favorite TV talk-show hosts. Apparently there are TV talk-show hosts whom they don’t think much of.)
But they insisted—and they all agreed on this—that being a movie star, any kind of movie star, rated higher (in the entertainment world firmament) than TV talk-show host. I guess, by extension, being anything on-screen in the film industry is better than being even-the-very-top in the world of TV.
(And actually, I’d encountered precisely this feeling—amongst film actors—when I worked in Hollywood myself, many years ago. Granted, that feeling was strongest amongst those select few film actors who actually managed to find regular work. The actors who only worked occasionally were much more open to the thrilling idea of collecting a paycheck by laboring at damn-near anything on TV… or any other medium that was willing to employ them.)
So I thought to push the discussion a bit to an extreme, by asking them whether they’d mind starting off, on the road to movie stardom, by working in, say…
… horror movies.
I mean, I wanted to see how low they’d be willing to go.
But to my surprise, they didn’t see horror movies as all that low.
Cuz, simply, horror movies are, be definition, movies. And movies, to their way of thinking, trump TV any day of the week.
So with my tongue firmly in my cheek, I asked them if they would’ve been willing to be “actors” in something like, say…
GODZILLA.
And boy, did that turn out to be the wrong movie to use as an example. They unanimously loved “Godzilla,” which we’d recently seen on TV. On “Turner Classic Movies” or “Svengoolie,” probably.
And they even started arguing over how they—individually—would’ve taken on the 100-foot tall monster from the sea themselves, and saved Tokyo single-pawedly. They especially thought that “the girl” was very pretty. And they mentioned that they would’ve liked working with Raymond Burr, too.
You can see that we’d left the realm of reality, once we’d gotten to that point in the discussion.
[One interesting note on the production of “Godzilla.” I must’ve learned this from the TCM host or from Svengoolie, when he introduced the movie.
[The original film production did not contain the scenes with Raymond Burr. They were shot later, specifically to drop into the already-completed Japanese version, so that American audiences would be better able to insert themselves into the terrifying plight of the monster’s victims.
[You probably didn’t know that, but it makes sense, right? And how much could it have cost, to shoot a few scenes with Raymond Burr in black-and-white? Especially if the audio didn’t have to be perfectly synced.]
Before I knew it, they were discussing how they would’ve enjoyed the chance to be in a few “Perry Mason” episodes, too, if they’d lived back in the 1950’s.
That’s when I know it’s time to take them all out for a long walk.
It would be difficult to over-emphasize the importance my guys place on the words “movie producer.” I know it sounds utterly crazy to anyone who’s not completely enveloped within the entertainment industry, but at least as far as my guys’ world-view goes, there’s a definite pecking order/ranking/coolness level in “the business,” and to their way of thinking, at least, being a “movie star” is the pinnacle at the top of the pyramid. The ne plus ultra, if you will, of entertainer coolness.
I remember a totally insane group discussion once, when I got so exasperated over these illogical aspirations of theirs—them wanting to become movie stars at almost any cost. It started out with me jokingly—jokingly—observing that they must at the very least see themselves as a few flights-of-stairs higher up the rungs of celebrity than TV soap-opera actors.
To which they agreed, but then went on to point out that they were definitely NOT a few rungs up compared to a TV talk-show host. (Or rather, compared to their personal favorite TV talk-show hosts. Apparently there are TV talk-show hosts whom they don’t think much of.)
But they insisted—and they all agreed on this—that being a movie star, any kind of movie star, rated higher (in the entertainment world firmament) than TV talk-show host. I guess, by extension, being anything on-screen in the film industry is better than being even-the-very-top in the world of TV.
(And actually, I’d encountered precisely this feeling—amongst film actors—when I worked in Hollywood myself, many years ago. Granted, that feeling was strongest amongst those select few film actors who actually managed to find regular work. The actors who only worked occasionally were much more open to the thrilling idea of collecting a paycheck by laboring at damn-near anything on TV… or any other medium that was willing to employ them.)
So I thought to push the discussion a bit to an extreme, by asking them whether they’d mind starting off, on the road to movie stardom, by working in, say…
… horror movies.
I mean, I wanted to see how low they’d be willing to go.
But to my surprise, they didn’t see horror movies as all that low.
Cuz, simply, horror movies are, be definition, movies. And movies, to their way of thinking, trump TV any day of the week.
So with my tongue firmly in my cheek, I asked them if they would’ve been willing to be “actors” in something like, say…
GODZILLA.
And boy, did that turn out to be the wrong movie to use as an example. They unanimously loved “Godzilla,” which we’d recently seen on TV. On “Turner Classic Movies” or “Svengoolie,” probably.
And they even started arguing over how they—individually—would’ve taken on the 100-foot tall monster from the sea themselves, and saved Tokyo single-pawedly. They especially thought that “the girl” was very pretty. And they mentioned that they would’ve liked working with Raymond Burr, too.
You can see that we’d left the realm of reality, once we’d gotten to that point in the discussion.
[One interesting note on the production of “Godzilla.” I must’ve learned this from the TCM host or from Svengoolie, when he introduced the movie.
[The original film production did not contain the scenes with Raymond Burr. They were shot later, specifically to drop into the already-completed Japanese version, so that American audiences would be better able to insert themselves into the terrifying plight of the monster’s victims.
[You probably didn’t know that, but it makes sense, right? And how much could it have cost, to shoot a few scenes with Raymond Burr in black-and-white? Especially if the audio didn’t have to be perfectly synced.]
Before I knew it, they were discussing how they would’ve enjoyed the chance to be in a few “Perry Mason” episodes, too, if they’d lived back in the 1950’s.
That’s when I know it’s time to take them all out for a long walk.
July 16, 2020
So that’s the background, when it comes to my guys’ penchant for all things Hollywood. They will do virtually anything to get our Real Dogs movie moving.
And so when they were all laying there on the ground, fast asleep, basically dead to the world, all it took to wake them up was Barnacle Bill half-whispering the words “movie producer.”
I guess that’s how it looked, way back when, when Prince Charming kissed Sleeping Beauty. Instantly awake! Like they’d been zapped by an electric fence!
(Have you ever had that happen to you? Been zapped by an electric fence gismo? I have, and it’s serious business. Try it sometime. It’s a literal “eye opener.”)
So as you recall, Suzie, Butch, and I had been to the grocery store to order supplies for the next day’s cooking demonstration at the shopping mall (wherever that was), and when we’d arrived back “home,” we’d found everybody sprawled all over the front and back yards, sound asleep.
We’d worried, at first, that maybe they were dead, or maybe that they’d been gassed or were suffering from food poisoning (you never know). We’d left that morning after having put Howie in charge, and I would’ve thought that Howie wouldn’t have let anything horrific happen to everybody, but obviously something had happened.
Now we come to find out, after Barnacle Bill’s long drawn-out story, that everybody really was simply asleep. After having worked far harder, I imagine, than any of them had worked in a very long time. (Remember: Being a prima donna TV master chef is not back-breaking work. It maybe takes brains, and talent, and great wit—and of course a winning smile—but it’s not ditch-digging.) So there was a perfectly acceptable—and safe—reason why they were all busy snoring when we’d shown up.
And that was the one-and-only reason why the house (and the grounds, and the swimming pool) looked so immaculately clean: Obviously they thought that if the place looked like a million bucks when “Mort and Charlie” arrived, “Mort” being the husband of the woman who’d inherited this dump and “Charlie” being his old 82 Airborne service buddy and—way more importantly—coincidentally a movie producer, that Mort and Charlie would be so happy about how good the house looked, that Charlie would be “all ears” when my guys just happened to mention…
… that they had this gangbusters movie treatment that was just crying to be produced and become the hit-of-the-century on the big screen. Aka, the silver screen. Aka, my guys road to mega-stardom. (Seeing as they’ve already achieved the almost inconceivable level of super-stardom. As I’ve explained, in their minds, TV can only take you so far. Thus, it can help you climb the ladder to super-stardom, but if you want to grasp the highest rung, grab the golden-est ring, you’ve gotta get yourself up on “the big screen.” (And even if “the big screen” is a semi-big screen at a multiplex theater, where the screens sometimes don’t seem much bigger than what a real megomaniac might have on the living-room wall in his own home.)
So this was, obviously, a huge opportunity for all of us. (“Us” including, somehow, me, even though I was never going to up there on the screen, “big” or otherwise.)
So the first order of business, which the guys all pressed frantically on me, was to find a copy (or four) of “the treatment.” It was stowed somewhere on the Tour Bus, but finding damn-near anything on the Bus can be time-consuming. We like to say that there’s a place for everything, and everything has its place, but we hadn’t really needed a copy of the treatment, so who knows where it had gotten to hiding?
So I was packed off to go search the Bus—high or low, if need be—in search of “the treatment.” We needed “the treatment” as soon as Mort and Charlie arrived, so I’d better start looking. As in: Right now. Immediately.
So I hitched it, post haste, over to the Bus and started my search. (Heck, if I couldn’t find it, we could always crank up the onboard computer and print up a few extra copies.)
Which didn’t last long. I decided, instead, being a bit of a showman myself, to don one of my favorite costumes and exit thus Bus holding two of my favorite props. (As seen here, in the photo.)
Needless to say, “the gang” was not impressed.
So that’s the background, when it comes to my guys’ penchant for all things Hollywood. They will do virtually anything to get our Real Dogs movie moving.
And so when they were all laying there on the ground, fast asleep, basically dead to the world, all it took to wake them up was Barnacle Bill half-whispering the words “movie producer.”
I guess that’s how it looked, way back when, when Prince Charming kissed Sleeping Beauty. Instantly awake! Like they’d been zapped by an electric fence!
(Have you ever had that happen to you? Been zapped by an electric fence gismo? I have, and it’s serious business. Try it sometime. It’s a literal “eye opener.”)
So as you recall, Suzie, Butch, and I had been to the grocery store to order supplies for the next day’s cooking demonstration at the shopping mall (wherever that was), and when we’d arrived back “home,” we’d found everybody sprawled all over the front and back yards, sound asleep.
We’d worried, at first, that maybe they were dead, or maybe that they’d been gassed or were suffering from food poisoning (you never know). We’d left that morning after having put Howie in charge, and I would’ve thought that Howie wouldn’t have let anything horrific happen to everybody, but obviously something had happened.
Now we come to find out, after Barnacle Bill’s long drawn-out story, that everybody really was simply asleep. After having worked far harder, I imagine, than any of them had worked in a very long time. (Remember: Being a prima donna TV master chef is not back-breaking work. It maybe takes brains, and talent, and great wit—and of course a winning smile—but it’s not ditch-digging.) So there was a perfectly acceptable—and safe—reason why they were all busy snoring when we’d shown up.
And that was the one-and-only reason why the house (and the grounds, and the swimming pool) looked so immaculately clean: Obviously they thought that if the place looked like a million bucks when “Mort and Charlie” arrived, “Mort” being the husband of the woman who’d inherited this dump and “Charlie” being his old 82 Airborne service buddy and—way more importantly—coincidentally a movie producer, that Mort and Charlie would be so happy about how good the house looked, that Charlie would be “all ears” when my guys just happened to mention…
… that they had this gangbusters movie treatment that was just crying to be produced and become the hit-of-the-century on the big screen. Aka, the silver screen. Aka, my guys road to mega-stardom. (Seeing as they’ve already achieved the almost inconceivable level of super-stardom. As I’ve explained, in their minds, TV can only take you so far. Thus, it can help you climb the ladder to super-stardom, but if you want to grasp the highest rung, grab the golden-est ring, you’ve gotta get yourself up on “the big screen.” (And even if “the big screen” is a semi-big screen at a multiplex theater, where the screens sometimes don’t seem much bigger than what a real megomaniac might have on the living-room wall in his own home.)
So this was, obviously, a huge opportunity for all of us. (“Us” including, somehow, me, even though I was never going to up there on the screen, “big” or otherwise.)
So the first order of business, which the guys all pressed frantically on me, was to find a copy (or four) of “the treatment.” It was stowed somewhere on the Tour Bus, but finding damn-near anything on the Bus can be time-consuming. We like to say that there’s a place for everything, and everything has its place, but we hadn’t really needed a copy of the treatment, so who knows where it had gotten to hiding?
So I was packed off to go search the Bus—high or low, if need be—in search of “the treatment.” We needed “the treatment” as soon as Mort and Charlie arrived, so I’d better start looking. As in: Right now. Immediately.
So I hitched it, post haste, over to the Bus and started my search. (Heck, if I couldn’t find it, we could always crank up the onboard computer and print up a few extra copies.)
Which didn’t last long. I decided, instead, being a bit of a showman myself, to don one of my favorite costumes and exit thus Bus holding two of my favorite props. (As seen here, in the photo.)
Needless to say, “the gang” was not impressed.
July 17, 2020
“That’s not the treatment!” Mona Lassie yelped.
“Come on,” Maggie chimed in, clearly displeased.
“Yeah,” Howie agreed. “Come on. This is serious.”
Oh. Yeah. Right. This is serious.
These two guys—Mort and Charlie-- weren’t even going to get here until Sunday. Maybe. And today was Friday. So what was the rush? (Assuming they were even coming… at all.)
Terry, who’d been sleeping down by the swimming pool, threw a swim fin at me and said, “You’re always clowning around.”
The swim fin knocked one of the 2 stone tablets out of my hands, so I had to bend down and pick it up again and hold it in its proper place before I drew myself up into a properly dignified pose (and luckily, the “stone tablet,” which is actually made of Styrofoam, wasn’t damaged, so it would survive until its next performance) … and said, “Me? These (nodding down at the stone tablets) are the foundational pillars of our Judeo-Christian tradition.”
“Your Judeo-Christian tradition,” Maggie reminded me.
We’ve had this discussion, me and the dogs, way too often. The way my guys see it, The Ten Commandments do not apply to dogs. Admittedly (from their point of view) humans often act badly. (Sometimes: more often than not.) So sure, The Ten Commandments make sense. Even if they’re so often ignored. You’ve got to do something to get people to behave decently. Or at least make the effort.
But dogs… Dogs can do no wrong. Ever. (No matter often humans yell at them.) So there’s no need for “Rules.”
And just imagine you’re one of my guys. They’ve attained super-stardom. And superstars are, by definition, exempt from the rules that apply to everybody else.
“Plus,” Mona Lassie threw in, “they’re in hieroglyphics.”
“Or something,” Terry nodded. “So you can’t read them anyway.”
“But I’d sorta know what they said,” I countered. “I mean, I kinda know the jist of it.”
“But it’s not the treatment,” Howie pointed out. To which everybody else nodded. “And that’s what we’re looking for.”
“But what’s the rush?” I asked.
There was a moment of silence. (Half-sheepish silence. I can recognize it, when it comes. When it’s something they don’t want to admit to.)
“Because we need to make some changes,” Maggie finally explained.
“Changes?” I repeated. “It’s just a treatment, for cryin’ out loud.”
Nothing. No response. Silence.
I looked at each of them. All 8 of them. One face after another. And they were stonewalling me. Just giving me “that look.”
“So you want me going back into that Bus, and look and look and get down on my hands and knees until I can find it…” I said, gesturing toward the Bus.
And at first: nothing. And then they all nodded. Dead seriously.
Great.
I sighed.
And as if I could forestall this second trip to (and the possibly endless search inside of) the Bus, I said, “What sort of changes?”
And they all looked down at their paws. Nobody seemed willing to answer.
Then Howie spoke up. “Well, it has to do with when we rescue Lolly.”
[I should explain. Lolly Beaglesley is the title character of the movie treatment, and at the end she, not surprisingly, has to get rescued from the clutches of the minions of the evil TREATS TV Network who’ve kidnapped her. Etc. etc. etc.]
To which my first thought was: How many times have we re-written the rescue scene already. But I couldn’t say that out loud, so all I could do was ask, “Can’t it wait?”
To which Terry replied, straight-away, “We don’t want to forget.”
“What?” I snapped peevishly. “To decide who gets to be the knight in shining armor this time?”
Which did not go over well with “the gang.” More silence. This time, stony silence.
And those looks. Looks that would kill.
I was—clearly—not taking this seriously.
“That’s not the treatment!” Mona Lassie yelped.
“Come on,” Maggie chimed in, clearly displeased.
“Yeah,” Howie agreed. “Come on. This is serious.”
Oh. Yeah. Right. This is serious.
These two guys—Mort and Charlie-- weren’t even going to get here until Sunday. Maybe. And today was Friday. So what was the rush? (Assuming they were even coming… at all.)
Terry, who’d been sleeping down by the swimming pool, threw a swim fin at me and said, “You’re always clowning around.”
The swim fin knocked one of the 2 stone tablets out of my hands, so I had to bend down and pick it up again and hold it in its proper place before I drew myself up into a properly dignified pose (and luckily, the “stone tablet,” which is actually made of Styrofoam, wasn’t damaged, so it would survive until its next performance) … and said, “Me? These (nodding down at the stone tablets) are the foundational pillars of our Judeo-Christian tradition.”
“Your Judeo-Christian tradition,” Maggie reminded me.
We’ve had this discussion, me and the dogs, way too often. The way my guys see it, The Ten Commandments do not apply to dogs. Admittedly (from their point of view) humans often act badly. (Sometimes: more often than not.) So sure, The Ten Commandments make sense. Even if they’re so often ignored. You’ve got to do something to get people to behave decently. Or at least make the effort.
But dogs… Dogs can do no wrong. Ever. (No matter often humans yell at them.) So there’s no need for “Rules.”
And just imagine you’re one of my guys. They’ve attained super-stardom. And superstars are, by definition, exempt from the rules that apply to everybody else.
“Plus,” Mona Lassie threw in, “they’re in hieroglyphics.”
“Or something,” Terry nodded. “So you can’t read them anyway.”
“But I’d sorta know what they said,” I countered. “I mean, I kinda know the jist of it.”
“But it’s not the treatment,” Howie pointed out. To which everybody else nodded. “And that’s what we’re looking for.”
“But what’s the rush?” I asked.
There was a moment of silence. (Half-sheepish silence. I can recognize it, when it comes. When it’s something they don’t want to admit to.)
“Because we need to make some changes,” Maggie finally explained.
“Changes?” I repeated. “It’s just a treatment, for cryin’ out loud.”
Nothing. No response. Silence.
I looked at each of them. All 8 of them. One face after another. And they were stonewalling me. Just giving me “that look.”
“So you want me going back into that Bus, and look and look and get down on my hands and knees until I can find it…” I said, gesturing toward the Bus.
And at first: nothing. And then they all nodded. Dead seriously.
Great.
I sighed.
And as if I could forestall this second trip to (and the possibly endless search inside of) the Bus, I said, “What sort of changes?”
And they all looked down at their paws. Nobody seemed willing to answer.
Then Howie spoke up. “Well, it has to do with when we rescue Lolly.”
[I should explain. Lolly Beaglesley is the title character of the movie treatment, and at the end she, not surprisingly, has to get rescued from the clutches of the minions of the evil TREATS TV Network who’ve kidnapped her. Etc. etc. etc.]
To which my first thought was: How many times have we re-written the rescue scene already. But I couldn’t say that out loud, so all I could do was ask, “Can’t it wait?”
To which Terry replied, straight-away, “We don’t want to forget.”
“What?” I snapped peevishly. “To decide who gets to be the knight in shining armor this time?”
Which did not go over well with “the gang.” More silence. This time, stony silence.
And those looks. Looks that would kill.
I was—clearly—not taking this seriously.
July 20, 2020
This stare-down couldn’t last forever. Somebody was gonna have to back down.
And, as always, it was me.
Fortunately (for all of us), everybody was awake. When Suzie and Butch and I had first arrived back at “the mansion” form our grocery store shopping trek, I’d frankly been worried that maybe everybody was dead. But they’d been merely asleep. Exhausted from too much manual labor. (And this from prima-donna pooches for whom even cleaning a stovetop is delegated to the stage hands. Or as they frequently put it: “the little people.”)
Anyway, everybody might have been glaring daggers at me, but at least they were all alive.
So, as always, I shrugged, and decided that life moves on.
Next step: walk back to The Tour Bus and print out 8 new copies of the treatment. You know: our supposed movie treatment. The one that’s never gonna get made, but the guys love to dream…
So I printed them up (it’s 10 pages long, so 8 copies was a lot of paper) and handed them out with the understanding that we all had to get dinner prepared soon, cuz tomorrow was going to be a big day.
They all nodded. (They weren’t really listening to me.) And stalked off to the far end of the pool to argue amongst themselves over whatever great changes they wanted to make to the ending. The ending had endured countless changes over the past few months. No doubt today’s changes wouldn’t last long, either, but the guys really enjoyed throwing around new ideas. “Brainstorming.”
I personally had learned never to sit in on these sessions. For me they were more like “brain smashing,” but I’d never say that out loud. Arguing over plot points, stage business, and casting for a movie that was never gonna get made seemed a harmless-enough pastime for a group of vagabond dogs.
(And face it: We were vagabonds. Why else would we have been out on the road, hawking our books, reminding people to tune into our shows on The Chow Network? And seeming to get into some sort of trouble, every time we turned around? Heck, just 2 nights ago, we’d been in the Baltimore City slammer. And for what? I couldn’t even remember.)
But right now, I was hungry. Even if the other guys had eaten their fill-and-a-half while Suzie, Butch, and I were gone shopping, the three of us hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast, and I was not about to go to bed without some sort of dinner. Even if it had to be another (you might get lost) drive into town to find a Burger King or Waffle House.
I figured that I should’ve been able to enlist Suzie and Butch in my quest for sustenance, even though they’d scarfed down several trays worth of free samples at the grocery store. Hors d’oeuvres, after all, no matter how many you have, can’t take the place of a real sit-down dinner. So I looked over in their direction, but they were just as intent on the argument (over some no-doubt picayune plot point) at the far end of the swimming pool as all the rest of the guys, so I couldn’t even catch their eye.
I’d just about given up, ready to trudge inside the house and maybe grill myself up a cheese sandwich or two (if there was any food left, at all), when all of a sudden a big shriek rang out from the “Gang of 8” at the far end of the pool. And pretty soon, all those 10-page treatments started flying around in the air, and some pretty serious barking broke out, and I sighed and figured that I was gonna have to go down there and break up whatever fight had just broken out.
I’ll admit that I didn’t set any land-speed records walking down there, and by the time I arrived, everything seemed to have quieted down. The guys looked up at me, projecting an air of total innocence.
“What?” Maggie asked me, as if implying that she saw no reason for me to intrude on their confab.
“What do you mean: what?” I countered. “It sounded like some pretty serious wailing, from where I was.”
“It wasn’t wailing,” Suzie frowned. “Howie got stung by a bee.”
I turned to Howie. He just made a face and said, “I’m fine.”
“Can I look at it?” I asked him.
And he blew me off. “I’m fine. I said I’m fine. It’s nothing.”
I glanced over at all the paper—pages from the treatment—that was now floating in the pool.
“Someone’s gonna hafta get those,” I mentioned, pointing.
“We know,” Mona Lassie moaned.
“We were almost done anyway,” Terry said.
“Did you get anything resolved?” I asked, hoping to throw a positive light on the situation.
“Sure,” Barnacle Bill piped up. “Plenty of things. Plenty.”
“Yeah,” Butch agreed halfheartedly. “Plenty.”
He didn’t sound very convincing, but I wasn’t going to push it.
“Well, that’s good,” I said, trying to sound up-beat. “By the way, I was kinda hoping that we could have a little dinner before we turned in. Anybody else hungry?”
I looked around, and they all just stared back at me.
So I turned and looked down at the water in the swimming pool. All those pages from the 8 copies of the treatment were floating off to the far end of the pool. Kinda like they were floating out to sea.
I turned back to my guys and said, non-threateningly, “You mind if I go for a swim? Maybe while you guys cook something up for supper? I got pretty sticky and sweaty doing all this driving around and grocery shopping.”
Butch gave me a glum look. “There’s no life guard in duty.”
Very funny. I gave him my best palms-up shrug. “I won’t drown.”
“Promise?” asked Fifi.
I looked at her and smiled. “Would you miss me?”
“Of course,” she smiled back. (You know those French girls: all charm.)
“And I’ll rustle up all the papers you guys let loose,” I promised. I looked over at Howie. “Is there a re-cycle bin somewhere?”
“Over by the garage,” he muttered. “But don’t worry. Just dump it all by the diving board and I’ll deal with it.”
His tone set me worrying. Heck, all of them sounded odd. What was going on? What had changed, so suddenly?
But I figured I wasn’t going to ask. Sometimes (if you’ve had children, you’ll know) you just have to let life play out. Sometimes it’s best to just keep your mouth shut.
Sometimes… you just don’t want to know.’
This felt like one of those times.
This stare-down couldn’t last forever. Somebody was gonna have to back down.
And, as always, it was me.
Fortunately (for all of us), everybody was awake. When Suzie and Butch and I had first arrived back at “the mansion” form our grocery store shopping trek, I’d frankly been worried that maybe everybody was dead. But they’d been merely asleep. Exhausted from too much manual labor. (And this from prima-donna pooches for whom even cleaning a stovetop is delegated to the stage hands. Or as they frequently put it: “the little people.”)
Anyway, everybody might have been glaring daggers at me, but at least they were all alive.
So, as always, I shrugged, and decided that life moves on.
Next step: walk back to The Tour Bus and print out 8 new copies of the treatment. You know: our supposed movie treatment. The one that’s never gonna get made, but the guys love to dream…
So I printed them up (it’s 10 pages long, so 8 copies was a lot of paper) and handed them out with the understanding that we all had to get dinner prepared soon, cuz tomorrow was going to be a big day.
They all nodded. (They weren’t really listening to me.) And stalked off to the far end of the pool to argue amongst themselves over whatever great changes they wanted to make to the ending. The ending had endured countless changes over the past few months. No doubt today’s changes wouldn’t last long, either, but the guys really enjoyed throwing around new ideas. “Brainstorming.”
I personally had learned never to sit in on these sessions. For me they were more like “brain smashing,” but I’d never say that out loud. Arguing over plot points, stage business, and casting for a movie that was never gonna get made seemed a harmless-enough pastime for a group of vagabond dogs.
(And face it: We were vagabonds. Why else would we have been out on the road, hawking our books, reminding people to tune into our shows on The Chow Network? And seeming to get into some sort of trouble, every time we turned around? Heck, just 2 nights ago, we’d been in the Baltimore City slammer. And for what? I couldn’t even remember.)
But right now, I was hungry. Even if the other guys had eaten their fill-and-a-half while Suzie, Butch, and I were gone shopping, the three of us hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast, and I was not about to go to bed without some sort of dinner. Even if it had to be another (you might get lost) drive into town to find a Burger King or Waffle House.
I figured that I should’ve been able to enlist Suzie and Butch in my quest for sustenance, even though they’d scarfed down several trays worth of free samples at the grocery store. Hors d’oeuvres, after all, no matter how many you have, can’t take the place of a real sit-down dinner. So I looked over in their direction, but they were just as intent on the argument (over some no-doubt picayune plot point) at the far end of the swimming pool as all the rest of the guys, so I couldn’t even catch their eye.
I’d just about given up, ready to trudge inside the house and maybe grill myself up a cheese sandwich or two (if there was any food left, at all), when all of a sudden a big shriek rang out from the “Gang of 8” at the far end of the pool. And pretty soon, all those 10-page treatments started flying around in the air, and some pretty serious barking broke out, and I sighed and figured that I was gonna have to go down there and break up whatever fight had just broken out.
I’ll admit that I didn’t set any land-speed records walking down there, and by the time I arrived, everything seemed to have quieted down. The guys looked up at me, projecting an air of total innocence.
“What?” Maggie asked me, as if implying that she saw no reason for me to intrude on their confab.
“What do you mean: what?” I countered. “It sounded like some pretty serious wailing, from where I was.”
“It wasn’t wailing,” Suzie frowned. “Howie got stung by a bee.”
I turned to Howie. He just made a face and said, “I’m fine.”
“Can I look at it?” I asked him.
And he blew me off. “I’m fine. I said I’m fine. It’s nothing.”
I glanced over at all the paper—pages from the treatment—that was now floating in the pool.
“Someone’s gonna hafta get those,” I mentioned, pointing.
“We know,” Mona Lassie moaned.
“We were almost done anyway,” Terry said.
“Did you get anything resolved?” I asked, hoping to throw a positive light on the situation.
“Sure,” Barnacle Bill piped up. “Plenty of things. Plenty.”
“Yeah,” Butch agreed halfheartedly. “Plenty.”
He didn’t sound very convincing, but I wasn’t going to push it.
“Well, that’s good,” I said, trying to sound up-beat. “By the way, I was kinda hoping that we could have a little dinner before we turned in. Anybody else hungry?”
I looked around, and they all just stared back at me.
So I turned and looked down at the water in the swimming pool. All those pages from the 8 copies of the treatment were floating off to the far end of the pool. Kinda like they were floating out to sea.
I turned back to my guys and said, non-threateningly, “You mind if I go for a swim? Maybe while you guys cook something up for supper? I got pretty sticky and sweaty doing all this driving around and grocery shopping.”
Butch gave me a glum look. “There’s no life guard in duty.”
Very funny. I gave him my best palms-up shrug. “I won’t drown.”
“Promise?” asked Fifi.
I looked at her and smiled. “Would you miss me?”
“Of course,” she smiled back. (You know those French girls: all charm.)
“And I’ll rustle up all the papers you guys let loose,” I promised. I looked over at Howie. “Is there a re-cycle bin somewhere?”
“Over by the garage,” he muttered. “But don’t worry. Just dump it all by the diving board and I’ll deal with it.”
His tone set me worrying. Heck, all of them sounded odd. What was going on? What had changed, so suddenly?
But I figured I wasn’t going to ask. Sometimes (if you’ve had children, you’ll know) you just have to let life play out. Sometimes it’s best to just keep your mouth shut.
Sometimes… you just don’t want to know.’
This felt like one of those times.
July 21, 2020
So I quick-stepped over to the Tour Bus, jumped into my swim trunks, and ran back and dove into the water before anyone could say anything else. I figured: a few laps would do me some good. Cool me off. Get me away from the chatter for a while. Plus… maybe… maybe somebody would start stirring up some dinner for all of us.
When I finally ran out of gas, Fifi was waiting for me with a towel. Very thoughtful of her. (Especially as most dogs have no need of towels, themselves. Which spares us, of course, a lot of laundry. Cuz my guys really do love getting wet. Any time, any place.)
While I was drying myself off, Fifi confided in me, “I think they’re losing energy.”
Which sounded alarming. Especially coming out of nowhere, seemingly. “What do you mean?” I asked in a half-whisper.
Fifi looked around. Most of the dogs had gravitated into the house, but she clearly didn’t want to be overheard.
“I can tell,” she said. “We were arguing about the movie, and then it was like everyone just didn’t care anymore. That’s why all the pages wound up in the pool. They stopped caring.”
“About the movie?” I asked. The beloved film treatment? The Holy Grail?
Fifi sighed. “About everything. I think we’re all getting tired.” She paused, then sighed again. Sadly. “Sometimes this whole Tour feels like a slow-motion train wreck.”
Huh. I hadn’t realized it was that bad. Granted, we hadn’t sold a ton of books. Hadn’t hosted any totally-sold-out public appearances. Hadn’t been on many local-TV talk shows or evening-news segments. But I’d just chalked that up to poor planning. (On my part, of course, but that was okay.) I hadn’t realized that the guys were actually feeling… depressed.
Fifi kicked a life preserver into the pool, let out another sigh, and said, quietly. “Maybe we should go home.”
Go home? And admit defeat? After a few minor setbacks?
I sat myself down on the deck by the pool, patted the concrete next to me, and Fifi shuffled over, sat down, and I put my arm around her fondly.
“We’re doing fine,” I tried to console her. “This is just a little blip. I know we’re sort-of hiding out, taking a bit of a detour from what we’d expected to be doing, but we can turn things around. Starting tomorrow. Suzie’s gonna be great, with her cooking demo. And Mona Lassie promised me that she’d be able to find good homes for the little ones—“
I pulled away from Fifi, just as she all but leapt to her feet and started staring at me in amazement.
“Oh my gosh!” she yelped.
So it wasn’t my imagination. She was just as stunned as I was.
Straight away, we both started yelling for Mona Lassie. Started yelling, really loud.
“Lassie! Lassie!”
And after what seemed like forever, Mona Lassie came trotting out the back door of the house, a fetching patchwork apron ‘round her waist, flour dusting her forepaws, and a simple smile on her face. Mona Lassie, ever the house mom.
“Yes?” she wanted to know.
She seemed so calm, so unruffled, that maybe Fifi and I were wrong.
Then again, maybe not.
So I blurted out, almost not wanting to ask her, “Where are the puppies?”
“The puppies?” she repeated innocently, as if she was trying to remember what I was talking about. “The puppies? Well, they’re…”
Then her face instantly changed to fear,
“The puppies!” she cried. “Oh my gosh! The puppies!”
So I quick-stepped over to the Tour Bus, jumped into my swim trunks, and ran back and dove into the water before anyone could say anything else. I figured: a few laps would do me some good. Cool me off. Get me away from the chatter for a while. Plus… maybe… maybe somebody would start stirring up some dinner for all of us.
When I finally ran out of gas, Fifi was waiting for me with a towel. Very thoughtful of her. (Especially as most dogs have no need of towels, themselves. Which spares us, of course, a lot of laundry. Cuz my guys really do love getting wet. Any time, any place.)
While I was drying myself off, Fifi confided in me, “I think they’re losing energy.”
Which sounded alarming. Especially coming out of nowhere, seemingly. “What do you mean?” I asked in a half-whisper.
Fifi looked around. Most of the dogs had gravitated into the house, but she clearly didn’t want to be overheard.
“I can tell,” she said. “We were arguing about the movie, and then it was like everyone just didn’t care anymore. That’s why all the pages wound up in the pool. They stopped caring.”
“About the movie?” I asked. The beloved film treatment? The Holy Grail?
Fifi sighed. “About everything. I think we’re all getting tired.” She paused, then sighed again. Sadly. “Sometimes this whole Tour feels like a slow-motion train wreck.”
Huh. I hadn’t realized it was that bad. Granted, we hadn’t sold a ton of books. Hadn’t hosted any totally-sold-out public appearances. Hadn’t been on many local-TV talk shows or evening-news segments. But I’d just chalked that up to poor planning. (On my part, of course, but that was okay.) I hadn’t realized that the guys were actually feeling… depressed.
Fifi kicked a life preserver into the pool, let out another sigh, and said, quietly. “Maybe we should go home.”
Go home? And admit defeat? After a few minor setbacks?
I sat myself down on the deck by the pool, patted the concrete next to me, and Fifi shuffled over, sat down, and I put my arm around her fondly.
“We’re doing fine,” I tried to console her. “This is just a little blip. I know we’re sort-of hiding out, taking a bit of a detour from what we’d expected to be doing, but we can turn things around. Starting tomorrow. Suzie’s gonna be great, with her cooking demo. And Mona Lassie promised me that she’d be able to find good homes for the little ones—“
I pulled away from Fifi, just as she all but leapt to her feet and started staring at me in amazement.
“Oh my gosh!” she yelped.
So it wasn’t my imagination. She was just as stunned as I was.
Straight away, we both started yelling for Mona Lassie. Started yelling, really loud.
“Lassie! Lassie!”
And after what seemed like forever, Mona Lassie came trotting out the back door of the house, a fetching patchwork apron ‘round her waist, flour dusting her forepaws, and a simple smile on her face. Mona Lassie, ever the house mom.
“Yes?” she wanted to know.
She seemed so calm, so unruffled, that maybe Fifi and I were wrong.
Then again, maybe not.
So I blurted out, almost not wanting to ask her, “Where are the puppies?”
“The puppies?” she repeated innocently, as if she was trying to remember what I was talking about. “The puppies? Well, they’re…”
Then her face instantly changed to fear,
“The puppies!” she cried. “Oh my gosh! The puppies!”
July 22, 2020
I sat on the deck beside the swimming pool and just looked at Mona Lassie blankly.
“Yeah,” I said, almost like I was in a dream. “The puppies. The sheepdog puppies. Isn’t that what this whole shopping-mall parking-lot cooking demonstration idea was all about?”
I looked from Mona Lassie to Fifi. She, after all, was the one who’d gotten designated as the lone/solo cooking demo person. Was all this effort going to be for nothing? Had the puppies even existed?
Neither Fifi nor Mona Lassie said a word.
So I persisted, looking Mona Lassie straight in the eye. (I wasn’t trying to be mean. However…) “Did they even have names?”
She thought on that for a moment. “I don’t think so,” she answered tentatively. “I mean, I guess they did. Do. I guess they do have names. We hadn’t really spent a lot of time talking to them. We just sort of…”
Her voice trailed off. I had to keep her focused.
“Well, they must have names,” I said. “It doesn’t matter. Right now. They know their names. We just have to find them….”
I looked at both Fifi and Mona Lassie. “Right? Correct?”
They kinda reminded me of deer frozen in headlights. (I don’t know if I’ve ever, myself, experienced deer staring, stock-still, at my headlights, but I can certainly understand the concept…. BTW: where exactly did the term “stock-still” come from?)
Then Fifi snapped out of her trance and nodded her head.
“Yes. Certainly,” she said. “We have to find them.”
She gave Mona Lassie a questioning look. “They did exist, yes? The puppies? We didn’t just imagine them?”
I offered something weird. “Do you want me to call Deputy Rick and verify… double-check that they really existed? That we didn’t just dream them up?”
Mona Lassie shook her head, right away, and vigorously. “No. That’d make us look like idiots.”
Fifi agreed. “Total idiots.”
I looked at Fifi. “You told me, just a few minutes ago, that you thought we were all kinda over-stressed…”
Fifi shook her head. “But not like that. We maybe are a bit tired. You know, not feeling quite right. Woozy sometimes, even, but not… crazy.”
She looked at Mona Lassie for confirmation. “No one would say that we’re crazy. Surely? Yes?”
“Yes,” Mona Lassie agreed. “Just a bit… taxed, you might say.”
She turned to me. “I’ve seen this at Bruno’s firehouse a lot. You know, when there are just too many calls coming in, in one shift. And then it starts happening night after night. And nobody really gets a good night’s sleep, and everybody’s just trying to get by with longish naps.”
Fifi seemed to understand. “I know what you’re talking about. Me, I personally, I need a real night’s sleep. Not just a nap here and there. We had a fire once, when I was growing up in Auteuil, and for the longest time I couldn’t fall asleep because I was so scared of dying in a kitchen fire, and so I tried to sleep in the basement, but that didn’t work because I’m really very afraid of the dark—Don’t tell anyone. I’d never live it down. Just imagine, a grown-up full-size poodle afraid of the dark! Nobody’d ever believe me when I barked at them, after they found that out. I’d be the laughing stock…”
And here we had another “stock” word: laughing-stock. Where the heck did that come from? In the Middle Ages, when the sheriff of Nottingham put somebody “in the stocks” and you could walk by and jeer at them, and throw over-ripe fruit at them, and point at them and laugh? (Unless it was your boyfriend or your Dad, at which you’d stay as far away as possible, so nobody would point at you and say something like, “Well, he’s her boyfriend!” Talk about guilt by association.
But I was getting off-track.
So I stood up, looked around for a towel. (After all, I was still in my swim trunks, and I was starting to get cold.) Failing that, I figured I’d make my way back to the Bus and change back into street clothes. But first…
I looked at Mona Lassie. “They are our responsibility. Deputy Rick Gave them to us, to keep an eye on.”
And she nodded. “Yes. And not just keep an eye on…” She looked like she was going to start crying. “I mean, I’m a grandmother. That’s my whole image, nowadays. And I make a joke out of how I don’t even know how many litters of newborns I’ve dealt with, over the years. And now, to think that I’ve just lost some… perfectly innocent little sheepdogs… I mean, they didn’t do anything wrong… Why weren’t we keeping a better eye on them?”
Fifi concurred. “How come we didn’t keep a constant eye on them?... How could we have been so irresponsible?”
Okay. Well, that wasn’t helping. Now she’d gotten Mona Lassie almost shaking.
And then I didn’t help, when I reiterated, “I can’t believe we didn’t even know their names… Did anybody even ask them?”
I sat on the deck beside the swimming pool and just looked at Mona Lassie blankly.
“Yeah,” I said, almost like I was in a dream. “The puppies. The sheepdog puppies. Isn’t that what this whole shopping-mall parking-lot cooking demonstration idea was all about?”
I looked from Mona Lassie to Fifi. She, after all, was the one who’d gotten designated as the lone/solo cooking demo person. Was all this effort going to be for nothing? Had the puppies even existed?
Neither Fifi nor Mona Lassie said a word.
So I persisted, looking Mona Lassie straight in the eye. (I wasn’t trying to be mean. However…) “Did they even have names?”
She thought on that for a moment. “I don’t think so,” she answered tentatively. “I mean, I guess they did. Do. I guess they do have names. We hadn’t really spent a lot of time talking to them. We just sort of…”
Her voice trailed off. I had to keep her focused.
“Well, they must have names,” I said. “It doesn’t matter. Right now. They know their names. We just have to find them….”
I looked at both Fifi and Mona Lassie. “Right? Correct?”
They kinda reminded me of deer frozen in headlights. (I don’t know if I’ve ever, myself, experienced deer staring, stock-still, at my headlights, but I can certainly understand the concept…. BTW: where exactly did the term “stock-still” come from?)
Then Fifi snapped out of her trance and nodded her head.
“Yes. Certainly,” she said. “We have to find them.”
She gave Mona Lassie a questioning look. “They did exist, yes? The puppies? We didn’t just imagine them?”
I offered something weird. “Do you want me to call Deputy Rick and verify… double-check that they really existed? That we didn’t just dream them up?”
Mona Lassie shook her head, right away, and vigorously. “No. That’d make us look like idiots.”
Fifi agreed. “Total idiots.”
I looked at Fifi. “You told me, just a few minutes ago, that you thought we were all kinda over-stressed…”
Fifi shook her head. “But not like that. We maybe are a bit tired. You know, not feeling quite right. Woozy sometimes, even, but not… crazy.”
She looked at Mona Lassie for confirmation. “No one would say that we’re crazy. Surely? Yes?”
“Yes,” Mona Lassie agreed. “Just a bit… taxed, you might say.”
She turned to me. “I’ve seen this at Bruno’s firehouse a lot. You know, when there are just too many calls coming in, in one shift. And then it starts happening night after night. And nobody really gets a good night’s sleep, and everybody’s just trying to get by with longish naps.”
Fifi seemed to understand. “I know what you’re talking about. Me, I personally, I need a real night’s sleep. Not just a nap here and there. We had a fire once, when I was growing up in Auteuil, and for the longest time I couldn’t fall asleep because I was so scared of dying in a kitchen fire, and so I tried to sleep in the basement, but that didn’t work because I’m really very afraid of the dark—Don’t tell anyone. I’d never live it down. Just imagine, a grown-up full-size poodle afraid of the dark! Nobody’d ever believe me when I barked at them, after they found that out. I’d be the laughing stock…”
And here we had another “stock” word: laughing-stock. Where the heck did that come from? In the Middle Ages, when the sheriff of Nottingham put somebody “in the stocks” and you could walk by and jeer at them, and throw over-ripe fruit at them, and point at them and laugh? (Unless it was your boyfriend or your Dad, at which you’d stay as far away as possible, so nobody would point at you and say something like, “Well, he’s her boyfriend!” Talk about guilt by association.
But I was getting off-track.
So I stood up, looked around for a towel. (After all, I was still in my swim trunks, and I was starting to get cold.) Failing that, I figured I’d make my way back to the Bus and change back into street clothes. But first…
I looked at Mona Lassie. “They are our responsibility. Deputy Rick Gave them to us, to keep an eye on.”
And she nodded. “Yes. And not just keep an eye on…” She looked like she was going to start crying. “I mean, I’m a grandmother. That’s my whole image, nowadays. And I make a joke out of how I don’t even know how many litters of newborns I’ve dealt with, over the years. And now, to think that I’ve just lost some… perfectly innocent little sheepdogs… I mean, they didn’t do anything wrong… Why weren’t we keeping a better eye on them?”
Fifi concurred. “How come we didn’t keep a constant eye on them?... How could we have been so irresponsible?”
Okay. Well, that wasn’t helping. Now she’d gotten Mona Lassie almost shaking.
And then I didn’t help, when I reiterated, “I can’t believe we didn’t even know their names… Did anybody even ask them?”
July 23, 2020
We weren’t accomplishing anything standing out by the swimming pool. (Where was everybody else, by the way? Inside, grabbing dinner?)
I was still in my swim trunks, dripping water from my quick dip in the pool, so the first order of business was simply to get myself to the Bus and put some dry clothes on.
Fifi and Mona Lassie followed me. Wordlessly. Each lost in her own thoughts, you might say. I wasn’t blaming anybody. But we somehow should’ve been able to manage keeping an eye on them. How tough could that have been?
And remember: Suzie and Butch and I had been off doing our grocery-store jaunt, ordering all the food for tomorrow’s shopping-mall cooking demo, so would it have been too much to ask, to have had Fifi or Mona Lassie or somebody keep tabs on the little ones?
(Wait a second, I found myself saying to myself. They could’ve gone missing long before Suzie and Butch and I even left for the grocery store. So why was I feeling so free-of-blame? When was the last time I remembered seeing them? At breakfast? Last night?)
“You know, I’ve never liked seeing you in cargo shorts,” Fifi sniffed as I changed clothes inside the Bus.
Mona Lassie half-moaned. “This isn’t really the time for a fashion discussion,” she said. Sadly.
“Why not?” Fifi wanted to know.
“Because—“
But I cut her off. She was, of course, right: This wasn’t the right time for a discussion of my wardrobe. But we had a trio of lost puppies to account for, so we really didn’t need to get distracted.
I pulled the cargo shorts off and slipped on a pair of blue jeans. It was a hot, sultry Tidewater Virginia late afternoon, so the shorts would’ve been more comfortable, but I wouldn’t die from wearing a pair of long pants.
“Okay,” I said as I slipped on my shoes. “Is this okay?” I asked Fifi.
She sniffed again, but nodded her head reluctantly.
“Good. Let’s get to the house and see if anybody else knows anything.”
Which seemed a good enough plan, to start. So we hustled out of the Bus and over to the house. Walked inside and found the rest of the gang sprawled out in the living room, watching The Chow Network on the big-screen TV. A Butch rerun.
(It was the one where he made the griddle cakes. They turned out pretty tasty. I remember the show got really good reviews. Lots of folks called in saying how much they liked it. What they hadn’t seen were the out-takes. You wouldn’t believe how much time we spent watching Butch trying to flip the flapjacks up in the air and have them come down—safely—on the griddle. It took forever. Mostly cuz we were either mopping up the ones that went splat or slipping on the wet floor, after we’d finished with the mopping… But, like I said, “the finished product” was fun to watch.)
So I had to tear everybody’s eyes away from Butch’s charismatic TV-screen mug. Easier said than done.
But I eventually found the remote control, hit the mute button, and when even that didn’t work, I turned the TV off altogether. That got their attention.
“Hey!” “What the---!” “Wait a second!” “That was my favorite part!”
But I calmed everybody down and then explained our “problem.” Which silenced the griping instantaneously. Soon everybody was staring at everybody else, shooting daggers at each other, like some sort of drawing-room murder mystery. We were all so instantly willing to blame someone else… anybody else.
And in reality…
It was all of our faults.
We’d lost the puppies.
We weren’t accomplishing anything standing out by the swimming pool. (Where was everybody else, by the way? Inside, grabbing dinner?)
I was still in my swim trunks, dripping water from my quick dip in the pool, so the first order of business was simply to get myself to the Bus and put some dry clothes on.
Fifi and Mona Lassie followed me. Wordlessly. Each lost in her own thoughts, you might say. I wasn’t blaming anybody. But we somehow should’ve been able to manage keeping an eye on them. How tough could that have been?
And remember: Suzie and Butch and I had been off doing our grocery-store jaunt, ordering all the food for tomorrow’s shopping-mall cooking demo, so would it have been too much to ask, to have had Fifi or Mona Lassie or somebody keep tabs on the little ones?
(Wait a second, I found myself saying to myself. They could’ve gone missing long before Suzie and Butch and I even left for the grocery store. So why was I feeling so free-of-blame? When was the last time I remembered seeing them? At breakfast? Last night?)
“You know, I’ve never liked seeing you in cargo shorts,” Fifi sniffed as I changed clothes inside the Bus.
Mona Lassie half-moaned. “This isn’t really the time for a fashion discussion,” she said. Sadly.
“Why not?” Fifi wanted to know.
“Because—“
But I cut her off. She was, of course, right: This wasn’t the right time for a discussion of my wardrobe. But we had a trio of lost puppies to account for, so we really didn’t need to get distracted.
I pulled the cargo shorts off and slipped on a pair of blue jeans. It was a hot, sultry Tidewater Virginia late afternoon, so the shorts would’ve been more comfortable, but I wouldn’t die from wearing a pair of long pants.
“Okay,” I said as I slipped on my shoes. “Is this okay?” I asked Fifi.
She sniffed again, but nodded her head reluctantly.
“Good. Let’s get to the house and see if anybody else knows anything.”
Which seemed a good enough plan, to start. So we hustled out of the Bus and over to the house. Walked inside and found the rest of the gang sprawled out in the living room, watching The Chow Network on the big-screen TV. A Butch rerun.
(It was the one where he made the griddle cakes. They turned out pretty tasty. I remember the show got really good reviews. Lots of folks called in saying how much they liked it. What they hadn’t seen were the out-takes. You wouldn’t believe how much time we spent watching Butch trying to flip the flapjacks up in the air and have them come down—safely—on the griddle. It took forever. Mostly cuz we were either mopping up the ones that went splat or slipping on the wet floor, after we’d finished with the mopping… But, like I said, “the finished product” was fun to watch.)
So I had to tear everybody’s eyes away from Butch’s charismatic TV-screen mug. Easier said than done.
But I eventually found the remote control, hit the mute button, and when even that didn’t work, I turned the TV off altogether. That got their attention.
“Hey!” “What the---!” “Wait a second!” “That was my favorite part!”
But I calmed everybody down and then explained our “problem.” Which silenced the griping instantaneously. Soon everybody was staring at everybody else, shooting daggers at each other, like some sort of drawing-room murder mystery. We were all so instantly willing to blame someone else… anybody else.
And in reality…
It was all of our faults.
We’d lost the puppies.
July 24, 2020
“DON’T PANIC!”
Wow. When Howie wanted to be heard, he could be seriously LOUD. I guess growing up in Chicago, you learn how to make yourself heard over all the automobile traffic, fire-engine sirens, and subway trains. Anyway, he definitely got our attention.
Howie kept speaking, now that we’d relinquished the floor to him, but he lowered his voice 20 decibels or so. Probably to exude a sense of calm.
“That’s Rule One,” he explained, walking over and standing in front of the living-room fireplace. “Don’t panic…. Rule Two I learned evading dog-catchers in my youth, in Chi-Town: Sometimes when a dog goes lost, he wants to be lost.”
Howie paused, and looked around at the others. “Now I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking: Well, these are innocent little puppies… Well, get real. We were all, each of us, innocent little puppies, once upon a time. And I know that, at least in my case, I did plenty of not-so-innocent stuff that made me want to get invisible for a while until the heat wore off… Same thing, quite probably, with these three little darlings. And even if they are, genuinely, lost, we can find them without raising a big ruckus.”
He scanned each of our faces. “Now, when’s the last time anybody recalls seeing them?”
The responses narrowed the timing down to sometime just after breakfast. A couple of the guys remembered seeing them gulping down bowls of Fruit Loops, but Barnacle Bill definitely did not recall giving them any sort of cleanup chore after he’d gotten the phone call from his old paragliding buddy “Mort.” (You know, the guy who supposedly owned this once-impressive swamp-waterfront mansion.) So that meant that they’d gone missing sometime after breakfast and before the fateful phone call from Mort, which had happened while Suzie, Butch, and I were at the grocery store.
In other words: The three sheepdog puppies hadn’t really been missing all that long.
Which was a good thing.
But they were still missing. Regardless of how short a period of time their absence really entailed.
We still had to find them.
Preferably before tomorrow morning. Because, if you recall, tomorrow’s shopping-mall parking-lot cooking demonstration had been invented primarily to create a healthy venue in which to solicit possible adoptive parents for these three sheepdogs foundlings. (Or maybe I should write it: “foundlings.” In quotation marks. Meaning: not really, but you get the idea… I looked the word “foundling” up in the dictionary, and it technically means: a deserted or abandoned child of unknown parentage. And that wasn’t exactly true in this case. These three puppies, if you recall, were removed from a house during a domestic-disturbance welfare check by Deputy Rick, so he would’ve known full well where these three youngsters had come from. He just hadn’t wanted to leave them there, at risk. So he’d rescued them and, effectively, dumped them off with us for a while. And Mona Lassie was the one who’d thought up the adoption scheme. With the help of Deputy Rick and his wife Mona, the local TV station manager who’d been organizing tomorrow’s shopping-mall live-remote promotional event.)
I piped up, to Howie and the group at-large, “Do you think maybe I should alert Deputy Rick? Let him know the puppies are missing? Maybe he could put out an APB—“
I stopped mid-sentence, silenced by the stonewall looks in the faces of every dog in the room.
Howie shook his head, half-mournfully. “You never do that,” he said quietly, looking at me sympathetically as if he was talking to the village idiot.
“Look at all the dogs we’ve got right here,” he continued, patiently. “Plus all the neighborhood dogs.” He motioned outside the house with his snout. “Between all of us and all of them, we’ll find ’em. If we get the cops involved, something bad is bound to happen. It always does.”
Obviously spoken from long experience.
I could see all the other dogs—Fifi, Butch, Mona Lassie, Terry, Suzie, Bill, Maggie, plus a couple of strays I didn’t recognize—shaking their heads in agreement.
“Okay, I get it,” I said apologetically. “It was just an idea… Are you sure we can find them?”
Howie nodded his head wisely. “Oh yeah. Not a problem. Remember: they’re puppies. They’re bound to be getting hungry again. Probably real soon.”
He turned his gaze away from me and spoke to the rest of the group. “We’ll find ’em. Let’s just put out the word.”
“DON’T PANIC!”
Wow. When Howie wanted to be heard, he could be seriously LOUD. I guess growing up in Chicago, you learn how to make yourself heard over all the automobile traffic, fire-engine sirens, and subway trains. Anyway, he definitely got our attention.
Howie kept speaking, now that we’d relinquished the floor to him, but he lowered his voice 20 decibels or so. Probably to exude a sense of calm.
“That’s Rule One,” he explained, walking over and standing in front of the living-room fireplace. “Don’t panic…. Rule Two I learned evading dog-catchers in my youth, in Chi-Town: Sometimes when a dog goes lost, he wants to be lost.”
Howie paused, and looked around at the others. “Now I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking: Well, these are innocent little puppies… Well, get real. We were all, each of us, innocent little puppies, once upon a time. And I know that, at least in my case, I did plenty of not-so-innocent stuff that made me want to get invisible for a while until the heat wore off… Same thing, quite probably, with these three little darlings. And even if they are, genuinely, lost, we can find them without raising a big ruckus.”
He scanned each of our faces. “Now, when’s the last time anybody recalls seeing them?”
The responses narrowed the timing down to sometime just after breakfast. A couple of the guys remembered seeing them gulping down bowls of Fruit Loops, but Barnacle Bill definitely did not recall giving them any sort of cleanup chore after he’d gotten the phone call from his old paragliding buddy “Mort.” (You know, the guy who supposedly owned this once-impressive swamp-waterfront mansion.) So that meant that they’d gone missing sometime after breakfast and before the fateful phone call from Mort, which had happened while Suzie, Butch, and I were at the grocery store.
In other words: The three sheepdog puppies hadn’t really been missing all that long.
Which was a good thing.
But they were still missing. Regardless of how short a period of time their absence really entailed.
We still had to find them.
Preferably before tomorrow morning. Because, if you recall, tomorrow’s shopping-mall parking-lot cooking demonstration had been invented primarily to create a healthy venue in which to solicit possible adoptive parents for these three sheepdogs foundlings. (Or maybe I should write it: “foundlings.” In quotation marks. Meaning: not really, but you get the idea… I looked the word “foundling” up in the dictionary, and it technically means: a deserted or abandoned child of unknown parentage. And that wasn’t exactly true in this case. These three puppies, if you recall, were removed from a house during a domestic-disturbance welfare check by Deputy Rick, so he would’ve known full well where these three youngsters had come from. He just hadn’t wanted to leave them there, at risk. So he’d rescued them and, effectively, dumped them off with us for a while. And Mona Lassie was the one who’d thought up the adoption scheme. With the help of Deputy Rick and his wife Mona, the local TV station manager who’d been organizing tomorrow’s shopping-mall live-remote promotional event.)
I piped up, to Howie and the group at-large, “Do you think maybe I should alert Deputy Rick? Let him know the puppies are missing? Maybe he could put out an APB—“
I stopped mid-sentence, silenced by the stonewall looks in the faces of every dog in the room.
Howie shook his head, half-mournfully. “You never do that,” he said quietly, looking at me sympathetically as if he was talking to the village idiot.
“Look at all the dogs we’ve got right here,” he continued, patiently. “Plus all the neighborhood dogs.” He motioned outside the house with his snout. “Between all of us and all of them, we’ll find ’em. If we get the cops involved, something bad is bound to happen. It always does.”
Obviously spoken from long experience.
I could see all the other dogs—Fifi, Butch, Mona Lassie, Terry, Suzie, Bill, Maggie, plus a couple of strays I didn’t recognize—shaking their heads in agreement.
“Okay, I get it,” I said apologetically. “It was just an idea… Are you sure we can find them?”
Howie nodded his head wisely. “Oh yeah. Not a problem. Remember: they’re puppies. They’re bound to be getting hungry again. Probably real soon.”
He turned his gaze away from me and spoke to the rest of the group. “We’ll find ’em. Let’s just put out the word.”
July 27, 2020
You know, sometimes you get the impression that all dogs do is eat, sleep, chase squirrels, and leave a mess everywhere they go. And I’m not going to argue that sometimes that does seem to be the case. I could also argue that if you watched me all day every day, you’d see me eating and sleeping a lot, and (according to my wife, at least) leaving the house a mess at times. (Though I seldom chase after squirrels.)
HOWEVER…
There are also times when you can witness just how big-hearted dogs can be, (Big-hearted, not big-headed.)
Witness:
You should’ve seen how Howie (aka Howie “Homeboy” MacScruff, wonder German Shepherd from the mean streets of Chicago) marshalled forces with the rest of the gang, organized “outreach” to all the dozens of mutts in the nearby neighborhood (half of whom seemed to be spending most of their time loafing around “our” mansion all day long anyway), and coordinating with gangs of dogs even farther afield to locate and rescue the three young sheepdog puppies that had (supposedly, though unofficially) been entrusted to us by Deputy Rick, after he himself had rescued them from an abusive-looking household. (The household contained a couple who’d sparked a “domestic situation” welfare check from Deputy Rick, during which visit he’d decided to relieve the quarrelling couple form the responsibility of caring for the three puppies.)
In the span of mere minutes, Howie and his minions had deployed to the farthest reaches of the neighborhood. (I’m not so sure who was assigned to check out the seemingly-endless swamp out behind the back yard, but I wasn’t gonna volunteer, myself. I could only hope that the puppies hadn’t ventured in that direction…. But then, who would?)
Advanced scouts were deployed, entries were posted (see attached photo), messengers were assigned various routes to check and then report back in on a regular basis. The level of organization, to my eyes, rivaled that of armies of most non-NATO nations. To say nothing of the Boy Scouts, Girl Scouts, and Campfire Girls (if they still exist). To say nothing of all those small self-organizing-to-meet-the-dastardly-threat gangs of kids in countless Disney-type kid movies.
Our living room became, logically, Operations HQ, and the kitchen was put on 24-hour alert to supply, feed, and re-feed all the cohorts that would return, tongue lolling and chest heaving from all that running-here-and-there exercise. Just the sheer amount of Kool-Aid we went through was amazing! (The particular flavor didn’t seem to matter. It was all gone, slurped, chugged down, the minute it was mixed.)
Through it all, Howie remained stalwart. He never flagged, no matter how long he was on duty, receiving intelligence reports, re-positioning the troops, or changing strategy to fit the ever-changing conditions. Dwight Eisenhower, when he was down in that bunker in London planning and directing the D-Day invasion of Normandy, would’ve been proud to have Howie on his staff.
What all this effort did not produce, however, were any reports of the puppies being spotted. Nor any evidence that they’d been anywhere. In any direction. No broken branches, no tattered clothing, no poop. Nothing.
Which would’ve been totally dispiriting, for a dog less dedicated and experienced than Howie. But every time I looked to him, to see if he was getting discouraged, he just returned my glance with a look of utter determination.
“Don’t worry,” he told me more than once. “You know, where I grew up, in Chi-Town, dogs could go missing for days. Weeks. Why, one time, a friend of mine got swept up when he was sleeping in a dumpster. The next thing he knew, he woke up in Des Plaines. Took him the better part of a year to get back home.”
He saw the reaction to this explanation on my face, and shrugged. “Okay, so that was maybe a little too extreme an example, but it does happen. Sheepdogs are resilient, you know. Just ask Mona Lassie. Even puppies, sheepdog puppies, can survive the most challenging situations and come out shining.”
Which I guess was supposed to be reassuring.
But rather than let Howie see the lack of confidence from the expression on my face, I moseyed outside to “check on the sentries.” (See attached photo.)
You know, sometimes you get the impression that all dogs do is eat, sleep, chase squirrels, and leave a mess everywhere they go. And I’m not going to argue that sometimes that does seem to be the case. I could also argue that if you watched me all day every day, you’d see me eating and sleeping a lot, and (according to my wife, at least) leaving the house a mess at times. (Though I seldom chase after squirrels.)
HOWEVER…
There are also times when you can witness just how big-hearted dogs can be, (Big-hearted, not big-headed.)
Witness:
You should’ve seen how Howie (aka Howie “Homeboy” MacScruff, wonder German Shepherd from the mean streets of Chicago) marshalled forces with the rest of the gang, organized “outreach” to all the dozens of mutts in the nearby neighborhood (half of whom seemed to be spending most of their time loafing around “our” mansion all day long anyway), and coordinating with gangs of dogs even farther afield to locate and rescue the three young sheepdog puppies that had (supposedly, though unofficially) been entrusted to us by Deputy Rick, after he himself had rescued them from an abusive-looking household. (The household contained a couple who’d sparked a “domestic situation” welfare check from Deputy Rick, during which visit he’d decided to relieve the quarrelling couple form the responsibility of caring for the three puppies.)
In the span of mere minutes, Howie and his minions had deployed to the farthest reaches of the neighborhood. (I’m not so sure who was assigned to check out the seemingly-endless swamp out behind the back yard, but I wasn’t gonna volunteer, myself. I could only hope that the puppies hadn’t ventured in that direction…. But then, who would?)
Advanced scouts were deployed, entries were posted (see attached photo), messengers were assigned various routes to check and then report back in on a regular basis. The level of organization, to my eyes, rivaled that of armies of most non-NATO nations. To say nothing of the Boy Scouts, Girl Scouts, and Campfire Girls (if they still exist). To say nothing of all those small self-organizing-to-meet-the-dastardly-threat gangs of kids in countless Disney-type kid movies.
Our living room became, logically, Operations HQ, and the kitchen was put on 24-hour alert to supply, feed, and re-feed all the cohorts that would return, tongue lolling and chest heaving from all that running-here-and-there exercise. Just the sheer amount of Kool-Aid we went through was amazing! (The particular flavor didn’t seem to matter. It was all gone, slurped, chugged down, the minute it was mixed.)
Through it all, Howie remained stalwart. He never flagged, no matter how long he was on duty, receiving intelligence reports, re-positioning the troops, or changing strategy to fit the ever-changing conditions. Dwight Eisenhower, when he was down in that bunker in London planning and directing the D-Day invasion of Normandy, would’ve been proud to have Howie on his staff.
What all this effort did not produce, however, were any reports of the puppies being spotted. Nor any evidence that they’d been anywhere. In any direction. No broken branches, no tattered clothing, no poop. Nothing.
Which would’ve been totally dispiriting, for a dog less dedicated and experienced than Howie. But every time I looked to him, to see if he was getting discouraged, he just returned my glance with a look of utter determination.
“Don’t worry,” he told me more than once. “You know, where I grew up, in Chi-Town, dogs could go missing for days. Weeks. Why, one time, a friend of mine got swept up when he was sleeping in a dumpster. The next thing he knew, he woke up in Des Plaines. Took him the better part of a year to get back home.”
He saw the reaction to this explanation on my face, and shrugged. “Okay, so that was maybe a little too extreme an example, but it does happen. Sheepdogs are resilient, you know. Just ask Mona Lassie. Even puppies, sheepdog puppies, can survive the most challenging situations and come out shining.”
Which I guess was supposed to be reassuring.
But rather than let Howie see the lack of confidence from the expression on my face, I moseyed outside to “check on the sentries.” (See attached photo.)
