I Stopped Hearing Him

We used to have this dog named Bilbo. He was a dachshund/something-or-other (my mom found his dachshund mother when she was pregnant with Bilbo's litter, so we don't know what the father was), and he had fluffy white fur spotted black that made him look fatter than he really was. He was an adorable dog to look at, but he was a spoiled brat. He barked at literally everyone and everything that came anywhere near our house, including the people who have been living there. It's funny, because had a black splotch covering half his white face; if it were up to me, I'd have named him Two Face.

A few times we tried to give him away. But each time the potential new owner took him to their house, Bilbo terrorized their other pets and holed up in a corner somewhere without letting anyone go near him. That happened to two different people, the same exact story. After the second person, my dad started calling him Boomerang.

So, Bilbo pretty much became a fixture of the Morey household: the Dog Who Barked at Everyone. He would bark at me like I was a serial killer every time I came home from school, but I guess I got used to him. I'd park my car, step outside and walk halfway through our front yard when his signature woo-woo-woo-woo-woof! punched the silence, and he came running from around the back of the house to do nothing but yap at me. "Shut up, Bilbo, you see me every day!" I would say, as if he actually listened.

A few years ago (we had Bilbo for about four years, I think), he lost his voice for a week. Seriously. When he tried to bark, no sound came out but a hoarse whisper of a bark. Best week of my life.

In retrospect, that's probably when the tumor in his neck started to form. We noticed a lump on Bilbo's neck and took him to a veterinarian. Bilbo had the tumor surgically removed, and he was just fine afterward--and even though he started gaining weight, he was basically back to his rotten, bratty self.

For a few years, anyway. Recently his tumor started to reform, but the vet refused to operate on him again because he had to cut so close to Bilbo's throat last time. And rather than have Bilbo weather another winter, my mom and dad decided to put him down.

That was two weeks ago. I found out today. I hadn't even realized he was gone. I must have stopped noticing him bark a long time ago.

Taking Up Space?

Ever since Occupy Wall Street garnered media coverage I've grown more and more fascinated by it. From what I've read, it's a movement unlike any this country has seen for several generations. People of all ages, races, income levels, etc., are realizing the gross socioeconomic inequality they've been living under and they are coming together to demand justice. Some media outlets and political commentators are even calling Occupy Wall Street the liberal counterpart of the Tea Party, but OWS seems... different to me somehow. Either way, the movement catches me in wonder.

But a friend of mine says Occupy Wall Street is nothing but a bunch of stupid, ungrateful kids lashing out violently as a way to demand money they don't deserve. It's nothing like the Tea Party, he says, because they had a legitimate message (legitimate because he agreed with them?), and never used violence to get it across. He spoke with authority, but... he hasn't been to an Occupation anywhere--he's only going by what he hears on the news--most likely Fox News, too.

So how does he know? If he's never seen for himself the way Occupy Wall Streeters really act, asked them what they really want, where does he get the idea he knows more than I do about them? So this is my resolve: I have to attend an Occupation rally someday, and the closest is Occupy St. Louis. I want to see what it's about. I want a firsthand account. I want to decide for myself where I stand. I don't know when I'll go, I guess I have to make plans.

"Sending hopeful thoughts!"

Few weeks ago my friend Tucker wrecked his truck, totaled it. He ended up recovering really well, doctors even cancelled the reconstructive surgery on his eye socket they thought was necessary. The guy's like Wolverine, I swear.

Back story's over. The day after the accident, I see a Facebook status informing the general public and asking friends to pray for Tucker's health. Okay, you're concerned, but what's an atheist supposed to say? He's a close friend of mine, and I'm supposed to leave a comment along the lines of "Oh, that's sad! Best wishes!"?

I hate feeling left out when people ask for prayer requests. Isn't there a more universal (and more real) way to ask for support in the face of adversity?

Obligatory Autumn Poem

Reds
and golds
Yellows
and oranges
Crimsons
and ambers

Leaves shine brightest
before dripping like rain
from trees

I'm working on an assignment for my Creative Writing class, a 5-10 page creative non-fiction piece. Sadly, this has nothing to do with it. But still, I like that I'm able to just flow and write whatever is coming to my head. I once heard it said that if you write only when you're inspired, you might make a good poet, but you'll never be a good prose writer. And that's how I'm starting to feel. I can't wait to get this prose piece over and done with so we can start working on poetry in class. I feel most proficient in poetry, having spent most of my writing efforts in putting together song lyrics. I don't write enough prose, and really I don't write enough in general. I don't read enough, either. I intend to start tonight, though. I have a journal for class; I might as well use it. I have to write a play as honors project, too. And it's due in a month. I should have been working on that more often than I have been, chipping away at it piece by piece, scene by scene. Again, I just need to write more, and write without any inhibitions. Banish the inner critic was our first lesson in Creative Writing. Invite him back in when you need to revise was the second. I haven't been following those lessons too well, but I'm getting better at it. Sadly, I think I'm gonna be up all night writing this paper. Oh well. Just wanted to get this off my mind so I could go back to working on it.

She's Nubs!

Back in 2003, the band NOFX released a song titled "She's Nubs" on their album The War on Errorism. Give it a listen while you're reading this blog, would you?

If you're paying attention to the lyrics, you'll realize that the song is an ode to a girl who attended the band's shows. A girl with nubs for limbs, attending a punk rock show; how badass is that? She even gets an awesome song written about her, and when I first heard the song several years ago, I guess it didn't hit me that this girl was a real person.

Then I was on Twitter today, and under the "Who to follow" sidebar, the user @NUBS416 is recommended to me. I usually ignore Twitter's follow suggestions, but what catches my attention is that @NUBS416 is followed by @FatMike_0f_Nofx. So I click her profile. It says her name is Talli Osborne, and her description reads:

Social Media Gal for Virgin Mobile by day - Singer of the Talliband by night!

Huh. I didn't know what to make of the Virgin Mobile part, but I'm always eager to check out punk bands, so I Googled the talliband (laughed out loud when the search engine asked if I meant "the taliban"), and found their Myspace page (you should give them a listen, they have a unique brand of acoustic punk guided by some absolutely beautiful female vocals).

The search result also turned up the following video. If you do nothing else with this blog, WATCH THE VIDEO.

Did your mind implode? Mine did.

First Sentence

You pick up the phone and someone says, "Hello. You're home, are you?" and with just these five words you know, although you haven't heard from him for ten years, that Uncle Ed is calling.

That was the first sentence of the chapter I started reading from my Creative Writing textbook today. Ed is a common name for an uncle to have (for anyone to have, really). I know that's why the author chose to use it. Not because everyone has an Uncle Ed, but because most everyone has an uncle who probably doesn't call that often, but whose mannerisms stick in our heads regardless. Ultimately, every reader should be able to relate to the sentence, whether their Uncle's name is Ed or Bo or Willie or George or what have you. And if your Uncle's name is Ed, then the connection between you and the sentence is even stronger.

However, the connection was lost on me, broken before it could reach me. I still understood the sentence's purpose, and why the author chose to use it, of course. It just wasn't the same. But hey, what are the chances of me taking this course, reading this book, two years after my Uncle Ed died?