Buzzzzzzzzzzzz

Shutter Shock

"Lay down with me. God you look so good. I want to take some pictures of you. Open your legs a little. Touch yourself. A little more, babe. Ohhh, that makes me hot. Honey, no one is gonna see these but me, don't worry, I promise. We're married, after all. Trust me.

Trust me.

Trust me.

I am your husband."

I heard what he said. Each and every word. And I believed each and every word. What a turn on, what an aphrodisiac, to hear someone voice their desire for you. How erotic to hear someone you love wants to take photos of you, wants to look at you like that, remember you like that, forever.

Those were the days before smart phones, before cameras with USB drives. The days even before the internet. The images were Polaroids because you would not want to send film to the drugstore to be developed. After all, it was to be private. Only between a husband and wife. Only between partners. Only between trusted lovers.

Then, one day I said to him, "You hit me. It will not happen again. I am leaving you. Do you understand what I have just told you?"
He said to me, "If you leave me, I will nail those pictures to every telephone pole in town."
I said to him, "if you do that, I will come up behind you when you least expect it and put a bullet in your brain. Do you understand what I have just told you?"

The next day, there was an envelope containing my intimate pictures under my Welcome mat.

I have come to know that a lovely young woman in my community has been the victim of a similar situation, albeit with a modern, twenty first century twist.

These are the days of smart phones, devices that can "bump" each other to transfer high res pictures. One click, one bump, and your face and every before now publicly unseen part of you is out in the world to look at, forever.

Forever.

This young woman's husband has broken the spousal trust. He has released intimate photos of his wife. A wife who loved her husband enough to trust him to take intimate pictures of her.

Trust me

Trust me

He put those pictures on the internet to hurt her, to shame her, to humiliate her. To possibly lose her job. No reason justifies this action. It has only shamed him.

Unfortunately, she can't tell him "if you do that, I will come up behind you when you least expect it and put a bullet in your brain. Do you understand what I have just told you?" because we do have smartphones, recording devices, and internet, and she is a public figure. The images are already out there.

But her friends, family, and I will stand beside her. We will champion her. We will defend her, no matter what.

Forever.

Sam

My friend Mike is a lover of dog. Not just a dog lover, because a lot of us are, but a Lover of DOG! A Friend of Dog. He has loved dogs from childhood, but when he became a man, it became part of his life's mission. That mission was, when one came into his path, when it was in his power to do everything in said power, he would enrich, support, protect, and save DOG.

The first was Bert, the loving, big boy, Bert. But this is not Bert's story. This story is Bert's Dog's story. Bert found Sam, a starving, poor, damaged shell of a dog. What someone might call a cadaver of a puppy. Mike's motto for Sam has always been "Sam, Sam, the Happy Hound", but what some do not know, there is an ending to that limerick, "who was almost dead when he was found."

We all fall in love with puppies, sweet smelling little bundles. We all fall in love with dogs who like to run and play, snuggle when WE want them to, understand our language even when we've taught them naught, expect them to poop and pee when and where they're supposed to. But what happens when a dog comes into our path who is not cute and cuddly?

What happens when your animal has found another animal whose sole existence is the basics? Eat, because the body says. Shit, because the body says. Sleep, because the body can do no more. That pup knew nothing else. Hunger, pain, hide, sleep. Who knows what that puppy went through in his early life. Bert found that puppy, and he knew his Dad would help. And Bert's Dad did, Mike did. How many of us would have passed on by? How many of us would have called an authority, "Come get this animal!", or not? How many of us would have just looked away from that damaged soul?

Bert found Sam because Bert knew Sam needed to be found.

Sam thrived. Sam thrived because Bert's Dad saw to it, Mike saw to it. Sam grew because Bert's Dad fed, nurtured, loved, and brought that poor damaged soul back from the brink.

Sam has lived through the death of his savior and friend, Bert. Sam has lived though the introduction of a younger brother, Lucas. Sam has lived through the introduction of the Girl Dog, Lilith, and a Pibble Princess, Tyger Linn. Sam lived because of the love and protection, through various times, of all five, but most of all his doggy Dad, Mike Firesmith.

But Sam was old. Sam was tired. He watched Dog Dad introduce younger dogs into the pack as fosters. He didn't understand they are temporary. He just wanted to eat, sleep, and to be loved by his Dog Dad.

And, I believe in his heart of hearts, he knew he was loved, he knew he was safe.

Rest in peace, old man. You were loved.

http://mikefiresmith.blogspot.com/2013/07/a-dozen-years-of-dog-happy-rescue-day.html

Ride 'Em Cowboy

I get home late today. As usual, I go to my bedroom, strip off the day's work uniform, and put on my comfies. Then I go into the adjourning bathroom to hang up my clothes. I notice Moby sitting next to the toilet, and with a very impatient look on his face, says "Maaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh!" I realize, damn! I left the toilet lid closed when I left for work this morning. My big cat, my big boy Moby drinks out of the commode. The term "toilet water" has a real meaning for my handsome man.

So, of course I apologize to him, and immediately lift the lid, whereupon he proceeds to lean into the bowl and drink as if he had just crossed the Gobi. Side note here to all you PETA people: my cats have fresh water at their easy access in my kitchen, so don't even go there with me.

I finish the hanging of my duds. Moby has finished his camel concession, and saunters over to sit on the bathroom rug and gaze through the door into the bedroom. I means he is just kind of do doodly doing it, lah de dahhing it, when BAM! Out from behind the shower curtain, hidden like the stealthy ninja kitty that he is, Bosco flies down, and lands just behind Moby's butt. Moby looks at me with the "oh, shit" face and jumps into the air one foot and starts to run out of the room. Bosco, not missing a beat, wraps his arms around Moby's neck, and rides him out of the bathroom like a monkey on a dog.

I laughed for thirty minutes. Moby has not looked at me since.

What A Dream May Come

I had been riding for a long time, days I think, but I wasn't tired. I had fueled 160 miles back, but my gauge said three quarters full, which is unusual because I only have a six gallon tank and the most I have ever wrung out of it has been 200 miles. So I kept on. No reason to stop. Made sense to me at the time. The house wasn't that far.

I passed other riders who had pulled over and were seeking shelter because of the rain, but I was completely dry, as was the road in front of me. Then it was almost as if it was slow motion, riding by, a biker's wave, a wink, that special salute.

The road up to the house became twisty, turny, a spaghetti sort of route that all I could do was look ahead and follow. The kind of road that is sweet to ride, but not for the faint of heart. Leaning into a curve, hearing the scrape of the floorboard on the asphalt in a deep turn. When you ride, as in life, you look to where you want to go, not to where you are, not to where you have been, or you'll drive off course. All of a sudden, when my back tire left the road, it rose up behind it to push it forward, like it was urging me to a haven, even though I didn't feel like I needed sanctuary.

The house. I was there. There were valets parking other bikes, cute little guys wearing chaps, but little else. Nice eye candy, but I drove to the back. No one rides my motorcycle but me. As I dismounted and locked up, I looked around and just felt off, like I didn't belong at my own family reunion.

There were groups of people milling about, going in and out of a tent that was erected on the lawn. The tent had a neon sign hanging from an awing that blinked "GET YOUR HIGH ON IN HERE". Humming "Stairway To Heaven", I grabbed a beer out of my saddlebag and walked to the house.

The house had many levels and many rooms connected by manicured lawns and pools, some for swimming, some for reflection. It was a magnificent spread, but every where I walked, every room I entered, every inhabitant was either drunk, high, or both. I don't mind a good party, but it's not fun when you're the only one sober.

I walked, sometimes trudged, though the house, up and over walls. In and out of pathways and corridors. Around orange traffic cones that were set up like pyramids. It was a maze, like those Indiana corn farm mazes that you have to carry a ten foot pole with a flag at the top just to be seen by the judges, by those who will rescue you when you will always get lost.

I was looking for something, searching. It's here somewhere. But I didn't know what.

I stepped into a hallway and saw my Aunt T. She was so drunk, she could barely sit. Son of a bitch, she never drank, certainly never did drugs, and looked down on those of us who did. But when I saw her, she was trying to hike herself up on a cinder block fence that lined one of the yards. There were men sitting on the fence smoking pot and she was wanting them to share. They were teasing her with the joint and kept calling her old lady.

I walked into one of those retro rooms from the fifties; dropped living room floor about six inches below the foundation and tumbled in, fell to my face. The floor was covered in plastic, with a thick coating of oil. There were bodies everywhere, writhing, undulating like a thick carpet of snakes. I slide around, trying to find my footing, wanting to escape the hands that were reaching out for me. Groping, orgy hands grabbing my ankles, my knees, my feet, trying to pull me down again.

I kicked out, and felt a crunch at the end of my foot.

"Fuck you! You are a Andes!" Someone drunkenly slurred at me.

"First of all, it's you are AN Andes. And secondly, the Andes is not a type of people. It is a mountain range in western South America, you cretin!"

I woke up.

Gone

My mother has been gone eighteen years. "Gone." It makes it sound as if she went down to the store to get cigarettes and just didn't come back. She is dead. She died, this night, eighteen years ago, at 9:55 PM.

I miss her. For the longest time, when her passing was so new, so fresh, I would automatically reach for the phone to call her, to tell her about my day. It broke my heart every time when I would realize what I was doing, that she would not answer the phone, that my Dad was the only one at home to hear the ringing.

But what makes me more sad than me missing her, is knowing what she has missed and the things she will miss.

She has missed the maturity and growth into womanhood of her two granddaughters. Both of them have traveled extensively and she would have loved to have heard, first hand, of their adventures. She would be so proud of their respective accomplishments in their careers. They each have wonderful friends whom she would have loved as well.

She missed her eldest granddaughter finding the love of her life. She missed their wedding. She will miss the birth of her first great grandson.

And we miss her. RIP C.C.Pill

That's all I want to say for now.

Maybe This Christmas