You know about the boys.
Rikki and Samuel
And the girls.
Iris and Raven.
Did you know about the fraternal boys? Bigshots on the bed?
Elliott and Raebert. Cut from the same exact cloth.
We’ll get by.
“It is better to look good than to feel good.”
I’m thinking they’re going to understand this post.
I’m thinking they understand the term bulletheads. Old, bald, muscular, and active. Whereas I am still this.
I’m older and younger than most of you. Mostly, people my age look like insurance executives. They might outlive me, but they’ve paid a heavy price.
But the irony is that I seem to have paid a heavier price than the bulletheads. My knees don’t work. How did that happen? They weigh somewhere between 180 and 220. I weigh 141 pounds. Their pictures show them para-sailing, water skiing, playing rugby, and tussling with grandkids. I’ve done all those things and a bunch more, but I guess I used it all up.
I still have hair. But now I’m wishing I was a bullethead.
God bless you all. Love talking with you guys. My Harley is cloaked in cobwebs. So is my Yamaha 250. I can just barely get into my Toyota MR2. Talking with you guys is the only way I stay alive.
Turns out that Strider is really Aragorn, King of Gondor.
Where were we?
So King Theoden was under the thumb of Wormtongue.
King Theoden in a bad way.
Then Gandalf shows up, renewed and Christ-like, to save the day by, what, effulging or something in glowing white.
Gandalf the White
Wherewith, Theoden is restored…
The Plott thickens: “I am newly recommitted to kicking ass.”
So we win the battle of Helm’s Deep, and then we go to Gondor with our new version of Strider, meaning Aragorn (see pic above), and when it looks like we’re just about to lose, he brings out the ghost army.
We win. Hooray.
Rohan safe. Gondor safe. Meanwhile…
Remember these guys?
Frodo
Samwise
Gollum
And the Ring.
There’s a close call with a giant black widow called Shelob-Bra. Really really nasty nasty one.
She grabs Frodo and then she starts shrieking. She will definitely kill him.
But Samwise tells her she’s just an annoying bitch and tells her to STFU. Which works. Road to Mordor ensured.
Samwise
Which is how how Samwise basically saved the entire universe from Mordor, Sauron, and the usual idiots who think they know better than garden variety garden varieties.
The Ring.
Totally destroyed. To-tall-ee. In the Cracks of Doom.
The Cracks of Doom.
And then there’s Aragorn to take credit for all of it. Why they call the last 300 pages “Return of the King.”
Okay. He’s a king.
The Harvard Glee Club. Saw them blow away the Princeton Diversity Chorus a few years ago. Some things men do better.
When you’re creating a novel length distraction to keep people from knowing that nothing’s actually happening, things start to get complicated.
Why we suddenly jump to the kingdom of Rohan. Where there’s a king who used to be bold, manly, and brave. Name of Theoden. Now he looks like this.
He’s being influenced, undermined, rotted, and grossly overfed with junk food by a cur named Wormtongue.
Strider (now Aragorn) and the elf and the dwarf show up at Rohan. They’ve heard a rumor that Theoden’s other son, Faramir, has Frodo and Sam in custody. But Theoden has banished his son Faramir. He’s just sitting there now. Eating tacos. By the dozens. But the bikers of Rohan are running free.
Faramir, brother of Boromir. The King is completely pissed. The Bikers of Rohan are banished.
But they run nonetheless.
Lyle.
George
Bonnie and Clyde
Axl
Plug Ugly
Mr. Sidecar.
Eowyn. Oops. Something for me.
The Greyhound.
Spike.
Hitman.
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=5UWRypqz5-o
But Faramir captured Frodo and Sam. The bikers made them ride.
Frodo is, as usual, scared.
Sam is not scared.
And then Gandalf returns from the dead. He pretends to be Gandalf the Grey.
Gandalf the Grey
But in reality he’s Gandalf the White.
He shimmers. His new superpower.
Stay tuned for the next segment — Part 9, the Return of More Plotlines and even Hobbits and Suchlike.
Got to get to Mordor. Unless Gondor.
Sooner or later, every epic turns into the Wizard of Oz.
This time we have to pass through the gates of Gondor.
Or the Gates of Mordor…
Where the shadows lie. (Sauron’s tower at the upper right…)
After Boromir died and Frodo and Sam went off on their own, there was a need for a whole interim book about the gang who were supposed to protect Frodo and didn’t. They had to be heroic and elvish and dwarvish and hobbity and in Strider’s case, human. Whatever that is. Since they started the problem in the first place, what with humans being so human and all.
So in the new vainly heroic phase of the quest, the elf and the dwarf and the human immediately lose track of the hobbits. No child seats on horses, I guess.
One of them winds up with Ents. Who are gigantic slow thinking critters who are mostly indistinguishable from trees.
Ents are slow to anger, but you should see what they can do to a bad wizard’s tower.
Before.
Saruman was great. He thought.
After.
Treebeard: “That little hobbit fella said there’d be cheese curls in there. Sorry.”
Saruman was none too happy.
“I’m none too happy.”
But never mind all that. Gondor’s where the action is. Or why would we have a elf, a dwarf, and a human riding pell mell toward a ruined kingdom with more towers presided over by a zombie and his mongrel Rasputin?
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=jAuwMT__wjI
They know about rings too, them dogs.
Stay tuned for Part 8, The Bikers of Rohan.
Very bad news.
The worst one attacks Boromir, just as he’s getting around to stealing the ring from Frodo.
Boromir is tough. But not this tough.
Very very bad news.
Boromir. Dead.
Frodo is like totally out of brave pills, so he runs away and Sam has to go with him, while everybody else has, as usual, no idea what to do.
Frodo tries to swim to safety, empowered by pure fear. But fear doesn’t make you a good swimmer, does it?
Sinking, drowning, Frodo is almost lost.
Omigod.
He has a vision of the afterlife, which seems to be reaching out to him.
I will save you. Just give me the ring. First.
He was capsized and captivated all at once.
Yes.
But Samwise is on the scene, looking out for his master.
Always working the plan.
Until you have to improvise.
Got him. And the ring.
All is well.
Frodo
Only Sam understands the fundamental equation. Which is that the One is really the Other, and Frodo is helpless against such power. So they have to run like hell into the worst possible situation.
I will save you. Just give me the ring. First.
Stay tuned for the next part, which has Ents and things.
Rikki and Samuel
So now we have two twelve year old greyhounds. Except for two specific attributes, impossible to tell them apart. One has deer ears and the other a needle nose. The new boy is Samuel, whose race record we just looked up. 40 races, two wins and six seconds. Not bad at all to undergo that and survive to this ripe old age. The senior boy in our household is Rikki Tikki Tavi, who also raced and survived, despite his close resemblance to Bambi.
Good news? They’ve already bonded.
This head hanging routine is definitely a greyhound thing. Don’t question it. Just know that it is real and meaningful.
You can only imagine what these two are doing to two romantics. All the titles and references that come to mind. Twilight of the Gods. Castor and Pollux. David and Jonathan. Huck and Tom. With the addition of our deerhound, The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen. But given the gravity of their age and complicated unknowable histories, here’s the reference that seems most appropriate.
Where are the clowns?
Harlequin is the ultimate clown makeup.
Next best is the Emmett Kelly thing. All sad face and painted on tears
Though some clowns wear no face paint at all.
And orange is not a clown. It just is. Kind of like greyhounds. Top speed until you drop.
We’re doing just fine, thank you.
In dog years, we’re the past. But in real years, we are present and accounted for. Thank you.
Just feeling like some Ry Cooder tonight. All music. No politics. There was a time…
And then there’s this potpourri of the Slideman.
Talk and talk about the best. Cooder is the best.
Cat, dog, man, horse. And the mystery of life and death.
I’m older and younger than most of you. Mostly, people my age look like insurance executives. They might outlive me, but they’ve paid a heavy price.
It’s all done fellas. And gals. Doesn’t really matter what happens from here. Obama succeeded in destroying the United States, the Constitution, and the two party system. You all let him do that. Assholes.
Golden Retriever. Name of Buddy. Consider this a Jersey elegy. All Jersey music for a Jersey Golden boy. He’s fourteen now.
Knew him from puppyhood. He was our grandpuppy. When he looked like this.
It’s still the same old story. Got him to teach the daughter responsibility. Daughter doesn’t want the responsibility. Mama takes over.
Funny thing. Mama is energized by his vitality, intelligence, and unconditional affection.
They seemed to know each other, wordlessly
There is bonding. She loves him. He loves her. She insisted when she got married on having him in her wedding pictures. Because he was every bit as important as the Best Man and the father of of the groom. He was her dog.
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=08jyOwx96Ig
Then comes the Golden Age of the Golden. There is a rhythm to his partaking of life. He is the star of family gatherings, in constant motion, greeting his many friends and playing with all the children, and looking for a chance at the shrimp on the table, and greeting everyone again, and never obnoxious, but always close and loving and the friendliest of boys. He seemed to have a unique relationship with everyone. I believed I was the only one who worried about his propensity for chewing stones from the garden. He put up with my worry and then returned to his habit when I was otherwise engaged. Rocks, shrimp, it’s all good, right, Grandpa?
Life IS a cabaret, old chum.
He was great at hurtling hither and yon, front yard, long back yard, see the kids, kiss the old ladies, and then leaning against you in intimacy. “You don’t want that last deviled egg, do you? I can eat a hot dog faster than you, wanna see?” And then off again to visit absolutely everyone at the party. But he always gave you a lavish hello and an equally lavish goodbye, tail wagging and “Please do come back again soon.”
But time passes and then comes the diminuendo.
Still anxious to say hello, but it’s slower, takes some time, though the rhythm of human interaction is still spot on. A tail wag in place of a determined insistent hug. He was getting older, though he still had a sense and fondness about the kids. And you.
It’s hard getting old. We still love each other, but it’s harder to lick people’s faces. From the floor.
Then comes the long goodbye, sorrowful on both sides.
I love this version of an ultimate Jersey Boy song. All voices singing the same tune. Buddy had so many friends, and all would sing the same song about him. And we will never leave him behind.
And now it is done. A sacred farewell from yet another Jersey voice. Toms River, I think. One of the greatest mezzo sopranos in the world. We look after our own.
Never been comfortable with the greyhound meme of the Rainbow Bridge. I prefer the idea of the shore of a new, next life. Where Buddy is now. Sitting with Sue. His mama.
Amazing, isn’t it? The ghost cat loves him. She’s on him all the time. He’s gravely and calmly like WTF. You know. The deerhound thing.
She luuuuvs him. She’s pure white and he’s pure silver. There is a thing called beauty.
You’re being a frail. Women want to compete, do they? Oh, but they also want all the rules changed to protect them. In the locker rooms, in the back smoke filled rooms, in the crowded herd of political campaigns. You’re being a jerk. Sometimes being a feminist means being a man.
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=LngrhG6nMWg
Think Hope Solo would press battery charges because of a brush up at the exit of a campaign event? She has a harder time getting out of the stadium than Michelle Strain ever will. You and your kind are childish in the extreme.
And then sometimes you get knocked down. Not lightly but utterly.
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=BLOadLVT5XU
And then what do you do, you go girl crowd? You get the fuck up or you whine. Ronda whined. Too bad for you, Lindy. And Michelle Strain. Because whining seems your metier.
Muhammed Ali went 61-5 over a quarter century. A single TKO in that career. One time he did not finish a fight. Last fight. Never knocked out. It’s a man thing. You want to be a hero in your profession, step the hell up and don’t play the weak sister who needs protection from the big guys.
Terminator red eye on.
And then I put them on.
I can barely see. Needing the dark.
I have severe eyestrain. Can’t do the Easter dinner. Too much book building. I need the dark just now.
So Garry Shandling’s gone. Into the great residual afterlife. His mock late night talk show was hilarious, probably the last real satire of television tropes we’ve had. How to be funny without four letter sex, fart and shit jokes in the memory of those who still have memory.
But not exactly the first. Before the Garry Shandling Show there was an even more outrageous talk show parody called Fernwood 2Night, starring Martin Mull and Fred Willard, both with outstanding poesy from Ohio. Hard not to see the origins of The Garry Shandling Show in Fernwood, Ohio.
But wait. Fernwood 2Night was itself a sequel and spinoff of one of the funniest and most original satires of television fare ever produced. Mary Hartman Mary Hartman, the truly inspired blue collarization of daily soap opera TV.
You’ll find it hard to duck encounters with the Garry Shandling Show for the next few days. This may be the only place where you’ll meet Fernwood Ohio.
You can find more clips like these. I hope you do. Garry would be honored, I think, by this more than phony platitudes. Though phony platitudes are always welcome in his fan club.
If I kill you, it’ll hurt.
“Maybe You’d have to kill me.”
“It’ll hurt if I do.”
Come on, you Establishment Republicans. These leading lights of the conservative cause are for Trump. They’re just dumb bitches, right? Send them to the kitchen to fetch you a beer.
Okay Trump haters. Spin this one. Think oh so carefully before you start your usual name calling.
Palin. Paglia. Pirro. Coulter. Ingraham. Schlafly. Tammy Bruce. Women. Trump supporters. My wife supports Trump more than I do. Trump says bad things about women. Awwwww. The haters love this line of attack, which is complete hypocrisy.
Ya know, everybody says bad things about women. Including women. If you want to get into pejoratives… Well, we won’t go there. The most capable and intelligent women don’t always line up on the distaff side. They’d rather be on the winning side that actually accomplishes something.
Awaiting your attacks. [Bluster, Bluster… well he attacks men too, and we don’t like it. Excuse me. Who called your dick small in the last 30 days? Try try again.]
Waiting for the long lists of adjectives which usually constitute the whole of Trump critiques. This time they’ll be sexist. And personal. Zincavage threatened to punch my teeth out because of my anti-male-chauvinistic act of gender equality in demanding that a blogger who made jokes about Trump’s penis show me her tits. Guess what. If he describes any of these women, particularly my wife, as stupid, I will drive to whatever godforsaken Pennsylvania town he lives in and punch his teeth out.
Live by the arrogant glib generalization. Die by the arrogant glib generalization. Start promoting your guy, start laying off Trump, start acting like grownups, or you’ll have nowhere left to go.
David Lee Roth.
An insanity defense.
…And a purely exuberantly defense.
The Zincavages will be sulking in their cheap brandy for months.
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