Tuesday, March 27, 2007
I broke my dog last week. We live in a crappy little overpriced condo near a beach, an airport, and a shit treatment plant in lovely Los Angeles, and one of the perks is a rotten old tennis court in the back yard. Since the pavement is all pocked up and cracked, nobody plays anything that resembles tennis in it, leaving the space to my kids on their bikes, my dog and me. So I was throwing a hardball against the wall and practicing my fielding (as I am now an all star chubby white guy on a Sony softball team), and while I was doing this, my shepherd was going ape shit also trying to field the ball. The harder I threw it against the wall, the more violent the bounce, the happier my dog would get as she charged like a rabid squirell on a shaved nut. Unfortunately, the constant stopping and sprinting...stopping and sprinting...stopping and sprinting, seemed to be tearing the crap out of the poor thing's feet and by the time I realized the damage it was doing, she was already in bad shape. Two days later it looked as if the wounds were getting infected resulting in five hundred dollars worth of vet bills. So my poor pooch is now wrapped up and not allowed to run for two weeks.
So, I've taken to blading at night by myself and while I do miss her company, it is kind of peaceful and probably not quite so dangerous (funny how a seventy pound slobbering beast can add an element of risk to your life when you put wheels on your feet). The other day while skating, I looked over to my left and was shocked to see a big ol' barn owl flying about ten feet off the ground, seemingly keeping pace with me. We must have rode like that for a good five minutes and I have never seen anything like it before in my life. I am pretty sure if the dog was there, I would've been on my ass watching as she tried desperately to eat herself an owl.
It did get me thinking, of course, about the idea of preditor and prey. The owl is a well defined killing machine. I, on the other hand, am not, and yet what greater preditor is there than man? I then wondered about the wheels on my feet and how it really isn't a bad way to locomote. Is it not wierd, that in nature, there is no such animal that moves with wheels on their feet? Is there a God? When that day finally comes that I tragically lose both my feet (and it will come) I will demand to have a set of wheels permanently attached to the remaining bone. I think it will serve me well in the post apocolyptic america of the future. I will be able to hunt down and devour all the owls I can eat (so long as there are no stairs or sand during the chase).
Without kid logic, I would be an idiot.
Friday, March 09, 2007
It's been pretty stupid busy the last week so I'm afraid I don't have much here to post. I pulled this silly little doodle from my sketchbook. I was waiting for a train when I did this...just playing with shapes. I've never been much of a designer, especially when it comes to the technical stuff...but it doesn't take much in the way in of brains to experiment.
In other news:
I was lying on the floor of my kid's room two nights ago, playing dinosaurs with my two year old. My oldest girl, who is 6 now, stepped over me and started climbing up the ladder to the top bunk of her bed. She was wearing a dress, and since I have the mentality of an eight year old, I started singing "I see London, I see France...I can see your underpants." Well, we all shared a touching family giggle, and I went back to playing dinosaurs. A second after my attention wandered I had a pair of kid panties in my face. When I moved them away, the child on the ladder was hanging a few inches from my face, wiggling her bare ass and singing at the top of her lungs "SMELL MY STINKY BOOTY". My mind went through a whole convulsion of horror which silently escalated to a brain splitting WHERE THE FUCK DID THAT COME FROM kind of reaction. Of course, I didn't say that to my six year old...no, I said something like...."Sweetie...these are things you do with your mother..."
So do I blame TV or do I blame genetics? Is it cartoon network's fault or is it that I accidently caught the Redneck gene when I was seventeen and making a living pumping gas at the Lambeth Olco on Talbot Street in London Ontario? Sure I sniffed that stuff...mostly by accident...but maybe sometimes as a coping mechanism. Come to think of it, before that year I think my eyes were still straight. I suppose most blame in life cannot be placed any farther than one's own mirror.
Of course, life is to be enjoyed, and I wish only bliss for my kids. If anybody out there has this parenting thing figured out...let me know.