Looking across a dozen yards in our neighborhood.

Proof of Snow–Christmas morning, 2009.

Proof of large puppies

December 27, 2009.

The boxer is Joe, aged 7 months.  The black dog is Remy, a Catahoula-Lab mix, aged 12 months.  Remy is calm, slow, and friendly.  Joe is good-looking, energetic, and, um, makes Remy look smart.  They worked out a deal that allowed them to share the yard on friendly, athletic terms.  Does Joe look like Antonio Banderas, or what?

This is undoubtedly the sort of puppy you were expecting.  This is B.D., four months of age.  The bony arm is that of my mother.  The weirdly glowing eyes are those of the puppy, who was under the covers fast asleep till she heard the photographer enter the room.

it makes me want to shoot somebody.  Trouble is, I don’t always know who.

Okay, so my brother, who is 58 years old, practically deaf, served four years in the Navy despite being a practicing pacifist, was attacked from behind as he worked in the yard of the house his wife insists they keep as a rental.

This is about good people, like my brother.  I don’t think a sweeter, milder-tempered, more beneficent, less hostile person ever lived than my brother Tim, unless it would be my brother Jim.  But this is about Tim.  Tim, who is five-feet ten inches of super-tech bifocaled brainiac.  Tim, who got talked into bowhunting as a teen, and who shot a rabbit–then gave it a decent funeral and burial, and never hurt another living thing.  Tim, who just takes what life doles out, whether it’s Lupus, or his job of thirty years being sent to Translyvania after the company was bought by a British corporation.  Tim, who got attacked from behind, pulled to the ground on his back, and beat unmercifully by two young thugs he had never even met.

Tim, whose daughter called the police, who came out and GAVE THE THUGS A TICKET and then GAVE MY BROTHER A TICKET.

$64.oo each.

Apparently, in Fort Worth Texas, ambushing and pounding a senior citizen is about the same as overstaying a parking meter.  And apparently, in Fort Worth Texas, the cops are sworn to serve and protect themselves.  I hate you bastards, Fort Worth Cops–know that, and know it for sure.  What the hell use are you?  Huh?  Right.  Get thee to a doughnut shop.

The family, as much as there is of it these days, got together at my house today.

First, the menu: Read the rest of this entry »

Okay, everybody here is a grown-up, and most of you are or have been teachers.

Drink up!

I nearly fell off my twirly stool when I ran across this one.