The Belle of the Ball

There's a reason my puppy can't manage to grasp that the outside is for peeing.

Every time I take him outside to pee, he's distracted by the endless stream of passers-by who insist on stopping, marveling over him and heaping love and praise upon him and his cuteness.

I mean, what if every time your instincts told you, "Hey, I think this smells like a good place to do your business," some random stranger came up and distracted you with petting and rubbing and gentle tones and delightful emotions and general friendliness?

I dare say you'd be distracted.

Meanwhile, back on the ranch, Daddy plays with you for an hour or so, gives you some food and water, then sits down at the table to type an e-mail, and suddenly you're left alone. And that's when you think to yourself, "You know what, self? I have to whiz."

There being nothing to take your mind off that realization, you do.

And that's why potty training the world's cutest puppy is not the easiest thing to do.

The Three O'Clock Panic

I'm presuming that sometime around 3 p.m. today I'll have a little anxiety attack about my puppy spending his first day alone at home.

He's penned up in my bedroom with all of his favorite toys and a couple of treats hidden in his Kong toy, so he should be okay, but that doesn't mean I don't feel guilty for having to go to work to keep him in the plush lifestyle to which he'd like, I'm sure, to become accustomed.

God help me, I've turned into one of those parents.

I think...

...that last blog entry pretty much certifies that I have no life, nor ever will have.

Not That He Left

I happily note the return of one of my favorite actors ever, Mr. Johnny Lee Miller, to the spotlight. He's staring in a midseason show for ABC called Eli Stone.

Truth be told, it's not that I think he's such a fabulous actor, it's just that I think he's kinda ridonculously cute/hot.

I defy you to say me nay.

Actually, I don't like him just because he's hot. I thought he was great in Trainspotting, and I really liked him Mansfield Park and Plunkett & McLean. Not that those last two were particularly good movies. But he's a decent enough actor.

I think I kinda just gave my true feelings away, there, didn't I?

This Crate Training Thing

...is going to kill me.

Betty Boop came up with an ingenious way to get the puppy into his crate without making him think I was trying to kill him or imprison him for life.

There's this toy for dogs – I don't know how long they've been around but I don't remember seeing them when I was looking for toys for Buster, back in the day – called a Kong Jawrobics. It's basically a hard rubber toy that's hollowed out, and you're supposed to put treats inside so that your dog has to play with it to get the treats.

Of all the toys I've bought for Atticus, this one, when combined with his favorite treat in the whole world (I cringe to admit in front of you that it's Pup-peroni Dog Treats), is good for endless hours of diversion, usually ending in a maddening stalemate with the Kong accidentally rolled under the sofa, and the dog staring at it forlornly in that way only the black eyed creatures of the world can master.

So, clever (and 75% evil) person that she is, Betty Boop suggested that I stuff the Kong full of Pup-peroni treats and stick it in his crate at bedtime, so he wants to crawl in there.

It worked like a charm.

But Atticus is no fool. He can't stop making water on the hardwood floors, but he's not an idiot.

I decided that I'd let him play with the Kong in the crate for a while before closing the gate, so that he would have a chance to have some fun in there without the stress of wondering why he'd suddenly been cut off from the rest of the world or, more importantly, me.

He was having none of it. The little corker was perfectly happy to go into the crate just long enough to pick of the Kong and bring it back out. We did that game three times without me locking him up before he fell for my evil plan and actually started playing with the Kong inside.

Then I closed the gate.

And that's when the terrible yelping started. It's been going on for a few minutes, and I'm doing my best to reassure him that I'm here and I'm not going to leave him.

So far he seems to be falling for it, but I kinda dread what's going to happen when I finish the entry and stand up to get into my bed.

Cross your fingers for me.

Well, that worked for, like, fifteen mintues.

He woke up as I tried to creep up the ladder and into my loft bed, and he's yelping like he's caught in a bear trap and dying!

For such an otherwise quiet puppy, he's got a set of pipes on him!

Atticus Goes to the Dog Park

I promise I won't always constantly natter on about my dog.

But he had a great day at the dog park.

Atticus: Day Two

So, I've noticed a couple things about Atticus in the short time we've been together. Since house-training him is my number one concern right now, it's not surprising that the two things I've noticed most involve his bathroom habits.

I know it's only his second day, but I'm having a hard time convincing him that he needs to do his business outside. See, he's a country mouse; having come from Missouri, he's not used to the hue and cry of the city, and it both fascinates and frightens him. He wants to take it all in, but there's no way he's relaxing enough to actually have a poop and a pee outside with all that craziness going on.

Here's the thing: Atticus is true to his Japanese heritage. He's a Ninja pisser and a Sumo pooper.

Since he wouldn't go outside, he's been peeing in the apartment, but we've had a hard time catching him at it. I realized why this morning. He's not a leg lifter, or even a squatter. He's a poser. Not always, since he's only had a couple "accidents," but generally when I think he's pausing in his constant roaming to just scan the area, what he's really doing is striking a pose and having a pee. Tres stealth.

This morning, after an eventful night that will surely make me the object of ridicule for decades to come (that's a story for another time), Atticus clambered out of his crate and we went outside for a walk. I'd been worried that he wasn't eating a lot, and hadn't had a poop during our five (count 'em, five) trips outside yesterday, so I wanted to get him harnessed up and out the door quickly. Happily, he hadn't soiled his crate (Good Boy!), so we hustled outside and went for a walk.

That's when I discovered my little pup has Sumo aspirations. Just as he doesn't like to squat for for a pee, he's tentative about having a squat to do #2. He sorta spreads his legs a little and prances back and forth on his back legs to shake things loose, sorta like a sumo wrestler getting ready for a match. Without the belly slapping.

Adorable.

Now if I could just convince him to pee outside, too.

I'm a Dad

That's right, friends. I'm a parental figure.

Today I brought home Atticus Finch Schulz, a 13-week old Shiba Inu puppy. He's a corker, this one. I think I might be in over my head. In a good way.

Schuyler Fisk. Unsung Singer.

So, I told you I enjoyed this movie, I'm Reed Fish, right? But I couldn't tell you a lot about it for fear of giving away its gimmick.

I'm still trying not to, but I managed to stumble across an mp3 of the one of the songs in the movie, sung by a delightful singer/songwriter named Schuyler Fisk. She kinda rocks.

Anyway: Check her out.

Where Did This Come From?

So this movie appeared in my mail box.

I don't remember putting it on my Netflix queue. Really.

Never heard of it before. Had no idea it existed.

But there it was.

So Betty Boop and I watched it tonight, and it was kinda delightful. And goofy.

And weird. But in a good way.

Like, half and hour into the movie, everything shifts and you realize something else altogether is happening. But I can't say anymore, without ruining the movie for you.

You should check it out.

Weird and funny.

I haven't been out and about with the camera in quite a while.

Yesterday, though, I was inspired to haul my ass out of bed at 8 a.m. and trooped (trouped?) all over Brooklyn (or, at least, my parts of it), just snapping photos. I came upon this poor old Mustang in a vacant lot off Vanderbilt Avenue. It looked so lonely.

I eventually found my way to Prospect Park, where I caught this young guy with his family, practicing a little futbol. It was just him and his two sisters, so you can imagine there weren't a whole lot of team drills going on. But his dad sure did make a nice setup, no? Look, a goal!

I wandered around at sunset on Saturday night and took some photos as well. Someday I'm going to learn to stop trying to take pictures in really low light. I'm just dumb that way.

Long ago, when I first moved to Brooklyn, something like six years ago – and maybe three laptops ago – I took a picture similar to this one. There's something about the columns at the entrance to Prospect Park that are really freaking cool. And since the last time I took a pic like this one, they've added the cool lights.

That photo, of course, was lost when my first laptop went south. The very laptop, ironically, that was the cause of the hardest time of my life. So far.

But that's a story for another time.

Anyway, I wandered around the park after dark and basically took a lot of blurry pictures. But I liked some of them, so I share them with you.

I actually kinda like the colors on these shots, even if the shots themselves are kinda sucky.

Model Nerds

There's a fundamental change that's happening in the world. This isn't a phenomenon I've only just noticed – it's something that I've been noticing for years and years, and seems to have reached its culmination in the current generation of kids.

And this is the perfect example of it:

The other day I was taking the train home from work and I happened to spot this kid. He was probably 23 or 24 years old, and he was, like so many kids today, in really good shape. Tight tee shirt, stylish jeans, stylishly scruffy and tousled hair with oh-so-perfect amount of product. The kid could have been a model right from the pages of GQ or Details.

He was with a friend, and they were both carrying these binders that looked like the type you might carry your school papers in.

As the doors closed, he and his friend settled in on the subway train and the model-y kid took out a notepad and furiously set to work, scribbling and talking shop with his friend.

I couldn't actually hear what they were talking about, but it was clear that they were both very passionate about their subject and were totally having a ton of fun.

The the kid unzipped his binder and started flipping through plastic sheets that were meant to hold and protect cards. Playing cards.

Magic the Gathering cards.

This stunningly hot specimen was a total geek.

And that's what I've noticed all over the place.

Back when I was twenty-three years old, there was a firm divide between the jocks and the geeks. Jocks didn't play Magic the Gathering or Dungeons & Dragons, and geeks didn't spend hours each week in the gym, look like Adonis, or have muscles rippling under their tight tee shirts. Hell, the geeks barely wore tee shirts that weren't two sizes too big.

But the world has changed, my friends. The geeks have had their revenge by turning into the hot guys of the 21st century.

I'd suggest you start boning up on your Magic the Gathering and Dungeons & Dragons rules. The Hot Geeks are taking over and soon you'll be required to learn anyway.

What's That Smell?

The other day I was biking along the west side bike path, and I passed this guy who had stopped and was picking lilacs from among the carefully tended flower beds that line sections of the path in lower Manhattan.

At first I was bemused and thought, "People will be people."

Then, the more I thought about it, I started getting pissed off that someone would think that those flowers – which are clearly put there and tended at what I'm sure must be some expense – should be basically stolen by some guy who doesn't give a shit about the rest of the world. I mean, after all, I thought, those flowers were put there for everyone to enjoy; not just for some jackass who wants to take a bouquet to his girlfriend, right?

And it was, indeed, a freakin' fistful of lilacs with which he was absconding.

Then, as I was huffing and puffing along in my high dudgeon, something finally occurred to me.

Had I not actually seen that guy stealing those flowers, I'm not entirely sure I would have ever noticed them, so intent am I on pedaling my fat ass along the path and to my stupid destination.

I actually have that guy to thank for making me, metaphorically, at least, stop and smell the roses.

'Course, now that they're gone, it's a moot point.

On the Run of Wrath

This is why I have the friends I have:

CK: on saturday at the south asian festival, because it's right on the east river, there were all these hot joggers jogging by
JS: oh, really?
CK: i was all "oh, she's performing shiva's dance of wrath... oh, he's really got nice nipples..."
JS: LOL
CK: it was an interesting juxtaposition
JS: which, actually, is an excellent example of the nature of duality.
CK: or nonduality. they could be one and the same. shiva may have really nice nipples
JS: or the jogger may have been performing another version of the dance of wrath. "the run of wrath."

I'm just sayin'.

On Remembering

On Being a Slob

Okay, it's time I 'fess up.

You want to know the real reason I haven't been blogging a lot, lately?

It's because my room has been a catastrophe. Clothes folded but not yet put away. Unread magazines stacked so high they were a hazard to anyone who walked too near them or too ungently by. Stacked up mail.

Truly, a pig sty.

And although I'd arrive home from work or whatever social thing I had going just wanting to sit down and blog some thoughts out at you, I just couldn't make myself do it.

I'm one of those fragile artistes who can't work if the conditions aren't right. Everything's gotta be in order for me to sit down and do my thing.

Bullshit, I know, but there it is. And sitting down in the cave that my room had become just scrambled my brain.

Mix this hothouse flower-like sensitivity with the fact that I'm the world's worst procrastinator, and you end up with a recipe for no-blogging ever.

Number One Nephew and his wife (my niece-in-law? That sounds weird. She's my niece) are in town again, staying with Betty Boop and I while they search for apartments. Tonight he needed to use my printer, and the simple search for the printer's installation disk turned into a major campaign to attack the clutter and organize my bedroom.

Thus I sit here before the computer and blog, my fragile artiste's psyche unharried by looming stacks of crap.

Thank god for house guests, huh?

On Hoping for a Visit

Stay tuned...

On the End of a Season

Ah, Summer. We hardly knew ye.

Work's been busy lately, with a couple of biggish projects nearing their completion and all the attendant pressure that goes with that.

I was sitting at my desk last week, staring bug-eyed at a computer, and suddenly realized that I hadn't had a vacation this year, really. I mean, I did take time off for the wedding, and I went home for the reunion, but I haven't yet taken any time to just get away and lay on a beach, or something like that.

And now summer has passed, and it looks like there's not going to be much chance of that happening before the chill of Autumn sneaks under the door jamb.

In so many ways – some of them good, some of them not-so-good – this has been a pretty eventful (read: stressful) year, and I think it might be wise to schedule some down time.

I just don't know when I'm going to do it!