Forward Element, ACo, 117th BCT, 2d USJM

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Wolfman. Lon Chaney Jr. 

wacki:

I guess on a day like today, I find it fitting to pay tribute and go digging into the vault of blog’s past. This one goes out to Cote, who, if any of you know, is a dog like pretty much all dogs, completely lovable and incredibly sweet. Dogs do something to us. They change us. For people that have never had children or even want children for that matter (i.e.-me), dogs are in fact, the perfect substitute or in my humble opinion, better.

I wrote a piece entitled “Man’s Best Friend” during my Stomp touring days which you will see below. I would come home on these extended stretches of time during the summers back then with no place to go. I was essentially homeless but I got a lot of writing done.

Enter my younger cousin Brad who would take me in asking nothing in return and was always the greatest host. He still occupied the house in Danvers that he and his brother Eric grew up in, however by this time, everyone else had moved out. No parents, no siblings, it was just Brad, his then girlfriend (now wife and soon-to-be mother of his first child), myself and this roly poly yellow lab named “Cote”.

This one is from the old days, so if you’ve read it before, I apologize. If not, please enjoy. I loved this dog and he wasn’t even mine. Top 3, all-time, easily.

To Cote, Heather and Bradley.

Monday, August 28, 2006 
Man’s best friend.
Current mood: Proud Dad.

As some of you may know, I’ve been on the road out on tour for quite some time now. The life I choose is a great one, but it has some minor set backs. For instance, I’m homeless. I live out of a suitcase. In fact, I have two of them. Both made by the Samsonite* company. (*) I am not endorsed by Samsonite.

The larger of the two bags holds my fine collection of ped girly socks, toiletries, my tees, some Tim Biskup guys and an extra pair of double-knee, extra-pocket Dickies*. (*) I am not endorsed by the Dickies brand name.

The smaller suitcase is the one that makes the security folks at the airport actually work. That’s my carry-on. It weighs a heavy ton and it’s filled with things that go break in the night. Electronics, things that plug in, things that make sound, things that light up. It’s fun to see them all corral around the x-ray tv thing and gawk at what that think might be a bomb or a gun.

”It’s a metronome!” I said. Or, ”it’s a practice pad!” I yelled once. ”It’s a effin piece of gum rubber on a piece of wood! You practice the drums on it. YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT YOU’RE LOOKING FOR!!!” Apparently he thought it was a device to take over the plane, wreck shop with or something that makes all the little bags of peanuts start handing out flight attendants. That was in Cleveland. I forget his name, but for this story’s sake, let’s just call him “Fuck Face”. The best part about those Duke boys is, they have absolutely no idea what it is that they’re looking at half the time. They told me they don’t need to know. That makes no sense.

So, back to my stuff. My stuff is in storage. Sometimes I imagine that in the middle of the night all of my things come to life and start hanging out and talking to each other. Like a… a snare drum starts making fun of some old crappy jacket or some crazy shit like that. Wouldn’t that be great if all your stuff came to life when no one was around and they all started talking shit about you? That would be frigin crazy.

So, I’m on the road, I’m homeless, have nothing I can really come ”home” to other than family and better food then what they serve overseas in Peducah, Kentucky. In fact, up until recently when I’d visit the commonwealth, I’d either sleep in a hotel and turn into a creepy old dude, sleep in my car and wake up with my t-6 vertebrae hating me, or crash at my Mom’s house and wake up smelling the fine aroma of 40 ash trays in a rain storm or cat shit. Pick your poison. Life is good.

Enter Brad. My cousin. He’s a good boy. Downright great in fact! He still lives in the house that he and his brother grew up in. Eric, his older brother, is wicked smaaaahhhht. He moved out when he was like 4 to go solve algorithms and build buildings with his mind. Recently their parents, my aunt and uncle, moved full time up to the land of tall timber as they reside permanantly in their summer home that’s now a home for all seasons. They live with Gandolph the Gray in the lovely state of Maine. ”Maine:The Way Life Should Be”. Petitioned by the state of Maine.

So he has this big house with all these rooms and no one to share them with. Enter me. Over the last three breaks I’ve had from the tour, he’s put me up. I stay with Brad. It’s great. He works the graveyard, so we barely see each other, but when we do, we pound fists, talk shit, and move on. It’s easy livin’.

This break home marks my third installment of living with Brad and having my very own key to the front door. This week also marks my very first installment of living alone while Brad is away. You see, Brad is on vacation this week with his fine, feathered concubine ”Heather”. She’s a nice girl, very sweet and caring, and she seems to really like Brad. So much in fact that ”she” allowed ”him” to convince ”her” that while ”they’re” away ”I” should get to watch her dog this week while they’re out of the country, out of range, out of sight Dynomite! Jimmy Walker.

The dogs name is Cote. Pronounced like ”Coh-tee” or sounding like ”Coat-dee” or as in rhyming with Truman Capote. Cote. He’s awesome. He’s this somewhat roly, pudgy, beautiful yellow lab with slightly sad slash innocent slash very expressive eyes, a wrinkly forehead and a chew spot near the right side of his ass that he feverishly knaws on from time to time like a crack head. I give him Benadryl twice a day to calm his itching discomfort. Plus it knocks him the eff out and as a Dog, next to destroying someone’s couch with a big turd, there’s nothing better then taking a nap wherever the fuck you want.

So the other day I took him for a preliminary walk to see if we’d like each other. To see if having him for a whole week by myself would be advantageous to both the Dog and the gate keeper. It’s an event. We get all excited. Shit, I all get excited. I say in my best, professional doggy announcer voice ”You wanna GO OUT!” He’s not a crazy, hyped up Dog, but these words work like Pavlov conditioning. He’s a slow mover, but he’s pretty much ready at the drop of a testicle. He has this dope leash that works like a tape measure. If he walks ahead too far or starts humping a bee hive with some weird angle drilling, I can just hit the locking button and pull that assface killer right back to me. Mechanical engineering at it’s best.

Cote does this weird thing when he urinates. He sniffs around, finds something to his liking, and pees for just a few seconds, then he moves on. It’s pretty common in Dogs. But have you ever tried to stop a piss stream after 3 seconds? It’s torture! The Taliban use it. And this dude does it CONSTANTLY. Like he’s being paid to.

And it doesn’t really matter what it is that catches his attention to make him stop and pee on it for just a fleeting moment, it can be anything. Example… The other day his piss sequence went from tree, to bush, to mailbox post to something that looked like a tampon dispenser. Yummy.

I haven’t had a dog of my own since I was a wee Wack. So needless to say, I’m a bit excited.

Tried to take a pic of my new man’s best friend and just as I go to do my best Year In Pictures, this golden blob starts crowning. Right there! I want that! I want to crown in my next photo op. Family picture, ”Come on now everyone squeeze in. Come on now smile!” I’m over there with a Charlston Chew coming out of my A. How sick would that be?!!!

And it wasn’t JUST a shit. It was this long, meaty coil of night soil that had these reddish accents in it like that of a Carvel ice cream cake. His brownie had highlights. Imagine that. Looked like spin art. Had to then do the plastic bag over the hand protective glove receptical thing. That was pretty cool. Picking up Dog shit with a plastic bag over my hand. Word to the wise… BRING MORE THAN ONE BAG! I made the foolish mistake of thinking he’d have little to no ”paperwork”. This guy eats Raisin Bran I think. Fucking two scoops of danger. He shit like 3 times, and here I am trying to knot and re-bag and re-fold and re-dream this tiny little plastic barrier between me and his ”remains” into a more spacious, more tactical device. Good times people. Good times.

My hand still looks like I caught a Jello* pudding pop in mid air. However, (*)I am not endorsed by the Jello Pudding company.

•••

Rest well, handsome buddy, you left your mark. Now go run in that big field in the sky and I’ll play with you again sometime down the road. I’ll bring tons of treats too!

xo

I love this post.

networkawesome:

Max Headroom- Episode One http://bit.ly/AcaVOg

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davereed:

jedigrrrl:

aaaaaand this is why I love Simon Pegg SO much <3

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"HOW TO 'MAKE IT' IN COMEDY" by Rob Delaney. This is good advice. Also applies to writing, music, cheesemonging, technical drawing, everything.

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hijinksensue:

Probably going to update the “Wesley’s Big Adventure” shirt with a bit of a wardrobe change. 

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wilwheaton:

Sparks McGee doesn’t put up with any shit from anybody.

Man, I wish I was as cool as that Sparks McGee.

rstevens:

VIVA BATMAN! (Found while cataloging my old syndicated comics.)

Yes.

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Meet SUBS. 

Battlespace Clearance Solution. 

Adaptive Guided Electromagnetic Pulse Weapons System. 

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