Least Significant News Of The Day

Drew Carey lost 70 pounds.

Jimmy Dean

A few weeks ago, Jimmy Dean died. I would guess few noticed. When one thinks of Jimmy Dean, one probably thinks about, well....sausage. Jimmy Dean sausage will likely go on and many pigs will continue to die for the pleasure of y'all carnivores. And yet...the older generation who lived through the era of variety shows might remember that Jimmy had his own...on network television in fact. One thinks "Big Bad John," a novelty song that somehow became a major hit. Jimmy was famous for a while. But mostly he is just linked...ahem...to sausage.

But long ago and far away, in Washington D.C. where I grew up, Jimmy Dean was a celeb in the nation's capital long before his big ears gained national attention. He had a regular Saturday evening show from the old Uline Arena...think the Grand Ol' Opry...with Gunther beer commercials...I think in Northeast section of the city. He also had a morning show, five says a week, seven to nine a.m..

I was not your typical seven year-old. I had my first guitar...lucky...it was a little Martin acoustic. While my peers might have admired Jimmy on the Mickey Mouse Club or Pick Temple and his pony, Piccolo, my heroes were finger-pickers....Elvis's guitarist, Scotty Moore...Ricky Nelson's guitarist James Burton...or Roy Clark...a terrific musician in his day. I remember my mother waking me up early for the two straight weeks Chet Atkins was a guest on Jimmy's morning show. Sleepy-eyed and probably munching a bowl of Sugar Pops, I studied Chet. I even remember Jimmy's band....Buck Ryan on fiddle, Smitty Erwin on banjo and Billy Grammer on guitar (the mind is amazing organ)....Jimmy sporting a huge accordion of all things...his huge ears sticking out from behind. Roy Clark was a regular as well. I would then go and sit with my Martin and practice the finger-picking style that was so fascinating and advanced for my little stubby fingers. Chet, Scotty, James, Roy and me.

Not a terribly interesting story...just a memory. It's just that I learned to play guitar by ear...or maybe by eyes. My fingers continued to pick along side my brother...my friends Jean and Steve...and they even helped pay my expenses during grad school. It all started with Jimmy and Chet and Roy. I know this. Few would care, but I know this. Bye, Jimmy. Thanks.

When I Am King Of The WORLD Whine Of The Day

People...lazy slobs...who leave their grocery carts in the middle of the parking lot

instead of taking them to the, um...cart place...will be PUNISHED! Punished by

having to corral these carts for low pay for the rest of their miserable lives!

Kernals of Truth...

The great mysteries of life. Why are we here? What is the meaning of life? Is there life after death? When will Willard Scott retire?

The answers will come. In time, Rick...in time. So, while I'm asking...and waiting...I might as well also ask a most burning question...why do dogs' feet smell like popcorn? Oh, some will say cheese....cheese crackers...cheese curls. I stand by my conviction that it's popcorn. A little butter maybe. But only real butter. Rusty's here...just ask him...or visit his handsome little feet. He'll let you. He'll like it.

If you think about it, dogs' feet live interesting lives. The fortunate ones do anyway. They run through forests and all the ground cover and exotic animals have to offer. They run across lush lawns and baseball fields and depths of snow and puddles of rain. These feet touch other dogs and are licked and pampered during quiet, quality times. I haven't checked...nor will I most likely...but I would guess the dogs of Bowdoin fields have similar aromas. It's all a part of the magical world they share each day. If you're there, you know. These dogs are friends. They carry out an improvisational ballet, each having a role, a voice. Some are principal dancers while others provide the background and chorus. The story line is often the same, but the choreography changes each day. Mouths....teeth...tails...slobber... and, yes, feet. Smiles, growls, grunts and wags. Exhausted, they will inevitably visit the privacy of the forest for necessary business...or gather at the water hole for a drink and perhaps a silent toast to the day's events.

The people...the dog parents as it were...vary in their approach to this semi-scheduled, semi-spontaneous performance. Some stand around and chat....air conditioners, weather, and such. Nice folks. Others engage with the dogs with tennis balls, frisbees, treats, and even wrestling in the thick Bowdoin grass. Still others...the "visitors"...will more often than not walk hurriedly by, curiously restraining their dogs who clearly want to investigate, perhaps to join, the show...the frolicking ensemble of dog buddies. As I've rarely been able to ignore the opportunity for a "dog fix"...anytime, anyplace...I can only wonder what preoccupation requires these "invaders" (Rusty's word, not mine) to deny their pets a chance to dance and play with the others. The rest of us are there to enjoy the company of other dog-loving-humans...but more likely to indulge the kids at the playground just as they deserve. There is no right or wrong here (well, Nora disagrees), but certainly the makings of a case study for an otherwise bored Bowdoin sociology student.

The dogs return home. A wet tummy from the puddle, a wet spot on the head from someone's mouth (you know who you are, Bailey), the satisfying drink of water to quiet excitement and thirst and, of course....popcorn feet. Popcorn feet. Although I do digress...I'd really like to know.

MEL-icious Behavior

Okay, so....what do we know about this guy Mel Gibson? What has this man revealed about himself...that we didn't already know? As we filter through our emotional reactions...shock ...horror...anger...laughter...we will ultimately make conclusions about the him. It's what we do. And as every celebrity-news-loathing bone in my body protests, I just can't help but think about this thing. Out loud of course. Well, sort of...

A pig? Yes. Arrogant? Yep. Volatile? Oh yeah. And yet, one more thing stands out from this most recent celebrity fuss. The man is, to borrow a line from that fine movie O Brother, Where Art Thou, as dumb as a bag of hammers. Intelligent? Perhaps. After all, he produces movies with languages that no one actually speaks! And they're very long...always an indication that a this is one serious movie maker. That must take some thought, huh? But the man is stupid, plain and simple. Unless he has never owned a freakin' computer or watched even one minute of television, he knows that whatever he does, WE WILL KNOW! Gulf coast? Well, blah, blah. Orphans in Haiti? Becoming boring news I suppose. But! Miley Cyrus has a hickey! Justin Bieber has no forehead! Only hair! We know...we must know everything about celebrities. Just ask Regis!

Oh, but he's handsome. Even I know that. He can find a starlet, marry her, pop out a baby and he's happyhappy and, most importantly, he's in the news again. Then the plot thickens. He's not getting his way....or not often enough. She's not listening...obviously. She just doesn't understand that he IS Mel Gibson, after all. He picks up the phone. He punches numbers in a seething rage. And, as those who have never gone to school will say (more on that later), "waalaah!" He's dumb again.

Oh, I know. He's not so innocent as just plain dumb. He's a classic narcissist. I've met many of these guys (and occasionally gals) right there on my comfortable leather sofa. (Nora, usually also on that couch, can sense a narcissist and usually chooses to lie elsewhere. It's what a good, intuitive therapy dog does.) They've come to my office..not out of a true desire to own their miserable behaviors, but to put on a good show for some controlled significant other... and to seek sympathy for being misunderstood...for being right but not receiving cooperation... for just about anything besides saying "I'm a controlling idiot and I need to change!"

But I was thinking on my morning dog walk about this and I think that ol' Mel might be doing a public service of sorts. Maybe his phone call will be enlightening to those who most need enlightening....the victims of narcissism and domestic violence. Unfortunately, to many women, this kind of behavior...yelling, swearing, threatening, name-calling, even hitting...is tolerated. High school boys bully their girlfriends. Financially dependent mothers must stay with their

a-holes, feeling weakened and frightened to leave. Maybe...just maybe...Mel's so utterly offensive words and actions...and enough public outrage...will empower some of these victims to leave. Wouldn't that be a wonderful thing?

In a TV age where commercials and sitcoms characterize men as idiots...for laughs...I resent Mel for validating the stereotype. And maybe thank him for the same, sad impressions. Now that you have, Mel....just go away. Okay?

AC

More and more often these days, as heat and humidity gradually saturate the otherwise crisp Maine landscape, I hear someone say, "Yep...put my AC in this weekend...gotta sleep....thinkin' of putting one in the kitchen area too...yep...the little lady....she sweats quite a bit....nobody likes that." Or something along those lines. Actually, it doesn't take much to make us sweat way up here where humidity is usually white, fluffy, and measured in inches from late November to mid-April. Come July and August, come mosquitos, come sweat...all the talk at the dog park (and life can be pretty much measured and accurately assessed by talk at the dog park....more on that later) is about when this God awful heatwave....you're talking mid 80's by the way...will finally end...and about "throwin' that there AC into my bedroom winda!"

My dogs? They do what they can. They pant. They shed. They wallow in puddles. They have their tongues and maybe the pads of their little pop-corn smelling feet (more on that later) to keep cool. Me? I walk slowly. I think slowly. I drink Mike's Hard Limeade. Just keep still, I say...the fan will soon oscillate my direction. Here it comes. No wait...okay now. Here it comes....now! At my office, where as my clients relate stories of true suffering, I cowardly, mentally plot the removal of my socks...I fantasize about Italian ice... I sweat in silence. Ah...a sentence perhaps never before written....sweat in silence. Suffering is relative I think. And while I have, in fact, suffered many relatives...also in silence...this is my misery. Today anyway.

So last night I did it. I squeezed my big self up my uneven, dark attic steps, lifted that heavy little machine carefully (why does one side weigh so much more than the other? Wish I knew stuff like that) and thumped down those narrow steps and around into my bedroom. Huff. Puff. Down. Next step, actually lodging the sucker in my window...my "winda"...in such a way that the cool air stays inside and NOT A SINGLE F@#KING WAFT OF HOT AIR finds its sneaky-ass way inside. Sure...I stepped on the plug, cut my foot and hobbled...swearing...all the way to the window. I think I actually muttered out loud, I WIN!" Not sure what, but it felt like that. The unit faces the length and breadth of my bedroom and I wonder if it felt confident...felt the challenge...to ultimately feel the gratification of making dogs happy and me sound asleep.

Anyway, I was able to leave my cozy nocturnal campsite on the sunporch and spend a night in a real bed. Rusty, no longer breathing hard, resting next to my leg....snoring. Nora, no longer panting hard, sleeping next to me with her familiar kangaroo-on-crack kicks occasionally interrupting my sound sleep. I love them.

I'll have something to tell 'em at the dog park.