Found dog

While driving home on Sunday afternoon, my daughter and I saw a dog sitting by the side of the freeway off-ramp. The way he was wandering around on and off the freeway and the exit ramp, I don’t think he would have lived very much longer if we hadn’t stopped and picked him up.

On Monday evening my wife and I walked him around the neighborhood where we found him. I had expected him to lift up his head and sniff the air as soon as we got out of the car and lead us straight to his home. Well that didn’t happen. We put up some flyers in the local convenience store and launderette. Today his owner called and he’s coming to collect him tonight.

He’s stayed with us all week and I have to say I’ve become quite attached to him. I haven’t owned a dog before and the way he would pick up his head and wag his tail whenever he saw me was very charming. He’s a chow/lab mix about eight years old, very friendly and sweet natured. The cats were a bit freaked out when we brought him into the house but it seemed like they were adjusting. I foresee a trip to the local SPCA in our very near future.

Alasdair shreds

The Clientele has released some great cds. They specialize in gentle, jangly guitars, subtle arrangements, and emotionally vulnerable lyrics. What you might not realize if you haven’t seen them live is the way Alasdair can metamorphize into a flat out, balls to the wall, rock ‘n’ roll guitar god. Despite being fairly drunk last night, hitting several bum notes, and misreading the set list, when it came to let rip on the solos, he shredded. If shredded is the word I’m looking for.

Next time The Clientele comes to town, if I’m lucky enough for there to be a next time, I’m bringing everyone I know: friends, family, people from work, everyone. I’m going to pack that smoky little dump called Walter’s On Washington with civilians who will all leave devoted Clientele fans, each clutching at least one cd and a T-shirt apiece. It’s a promise.

Always at this time of year

Small heaps of sawdust on the back patio as the carpenter bees make their homes in the wooden beams above.

Mocking birds dive bombing our cat as he patrols the front and back yards.

A perversion of pleasure

The theologians tell us that cruelty comes from the devil, and this may be the ultimate cause, for it is most certainly evil in intent. But in its immediate cause I do believe that true cruelty comes from a perversion of pleasure, for the cruel man enjoys the torment he inflicts on others and, like an experienced musician with his viol or virginal, can play upon his instrument and make all manner of harmony, exciting torment and humiliation, distress and empty anger, shame, regret and fear at will. Some can produce all of these, together and singly, with the most delicate touches, sometimes playing more loudly on his subject until the motion excited in the mind is all but unbearable, then more softly so that the misery is summoned gently and with seductive delight. Such a man as Grove was an artist in his cruelty, for he played for the pleasure of his creation, and the delight of his skill.

Iain Pears
An Instance of the Fingerpost

More Gore

...there is no such thing as a homosexual or heterosexual person. There are only homo- or heterosexual acts. Most people are a mixture of impulses if not practices, and what anyone does with a willing partner is of no social or cosmic significance.

So why all the fuss? In order for a ruling class to rule, there must be arbitrary prohibitions. Of all prohibitions, sexual taboo is the most useful because sex involves everyone. To be able to lock up someone or deprive them of employment because of his sex life is a very great power indeed, and one seldom used in civilized societies. But although the United States is the best and most perfect of earth’s societies and our huddled masses earth’s envy, we have yet to create a civilization, as opposed to a way of life. This is why we have allowed our governors to divide the population into two teams. One team is good, godly, straight; the other is evil, sick, vicious...

Gore Vidal
Tennessee Williams: Someone To Laugh At The Squares With
The New York Review of Books
June 13, 1985

A star is born

I saw my daughter dance at her school Spring Choir Concert yesterday evening. It was awesome.