PREFACE: I have to write about Rush eventually; that is just par for my course. While many friends, readers and enemies may and do mock me for my addiction, I will stand firm in supporting the band because they have influenced me as both an artist and a thinker. As I am short on time, this week's post will be a review I wrote in 2002 when Rush released Vapor Trails, one of their finer albums. I am posting this because I think it is decent writing and also because I was kind of ticked that it never got published. Breaking into the music review business is tough business.
REVIEW OF Vapor Trails by Rush; originally written in 2002:
If your musical tastes draw you toward the latest hit-rap, hip-hop, flip-pop or sap-top, then perhaps Rush isn’t (and never has been) for you.
But if your maturing, yes even reaching middle age, intellect feeds on a more introspective sound, then perhaps the Canadian trio is (and always has been) just what you’re looking for.
With the release of Vapor Trails, their 17th studio album, Rush not only launches into a new chapter of their musical odyssey, but they simultaneously sculpt a finer image of their unique style — an eclectic blend of rock and melody which heightens the spirit and awakens the conscious to newly formed realities.
For as much as Rush is a rock and roll band, they are musicians first, and as musicians they have challenged themselves artistically and conceptually with each of their previous sixteen endeavors. Vapor Trails is no exception.
From the opening riffs of the single “One Little Victory” the middle-aged rockers seem to be toying with us, reinforcing their ability to grasp every genre of rock with a drum and guitar escalade that would impress even the hardest Korn fan. In fact, they seem to be showing off, portraying a “Listen to what we can play” expression of virtuosity. You want hard and fast, well how about hard, fast and intricately complex?
Layered with hearty cords and resounding percussion, the rhythm straight out rocks, a ripping tirade that has become a signature of the band’s talents. The song, however, drifts with a comfortable transition into an ethereal, sensitive tune one tends to expect as quintessentially Rush, then pounds back and forth between the two alternating styles to encompass the sense of accomplishment felt when one experiences “Just one little victory...the spirit breaking free...”
Geddy Lee’s voice has aged like wine — now lilting and praiseworthy rather than screeching and powerful as it was fifteen years ago. Alex Lifeson’s guitar work has taken art and craft to a level of sophisticated trade, a “Blacksmith and Artist,” to borrow a phrase from the Rush anthology. And Neil Peart, well, Peart as lyricist and drummer is precise and rhythmic on percussion, worldly and in-tuned on lyrics, as always.
If the introduction to the band’s return after a six year hiatus does its job by pulling the rock audience in, the album does not disappoint.
The second track, the inspired and lively “Ceiling Unlimited,” pulsates with energy and direction, supporting the thoughtful lyrics under a shell of sense and vibration. It previews the entire record, a veritable journey which sends the “culture of the thinking class” on a mission through near-anthemic songs with heart and determination at every beat. After all, with their return, “The time is now again.”
The haunting and mystical “Ghost Rider” tells a tale of exploration around the world’s majesty, based on Peart’s own experiences as recounted in a memoir of the same title, and perhaps confronting the personal demons he faced while mourning the death of both his wife and daughter in separate events between 1997 and 1998.
Likewise, the album's title track leaves one envisioning all the places we have been and need to go in a world falling away with chaos while attempting to redefine ourselves as a shared human race.
Tenderly, “And the Stars Look Down” and “Secret Touch” find ways to exhibit emotionality while being backed by a heavy thud and thunderous rock sound. At moments the album lingers between hope — with the inspiring “Sweet Miracle,” which utilizes the “Rushian” (to coin a term) technique of double meaning layered like a Chekhov play with subtext and suggestion — and lost despair in “Freeze,” a darkened, driving exploration of the human psyche confronted with fear.
One cannot critique a Rush effort without focusing on the lyrical quality of the piece, for it is there that the soul of the band exists and where Rush separates themselves from other bands — namely the countless, both famous and forgotten, other bands who have come, gone and come back and gone away again in the twenty-five plus years since we first heard the Rush sound.
While Vapor Trails is not the “Tom Sawyer” or “Free Will” of mass appeal from the group’s halcyon days, it is an album whose conscious is vital and profound, free spirited and as wise as Sawyer may have hoped to become. It is, perhaps, Tom Sawyer all grown up.
Vapor Trails as a piece of literature endears itself poetically to a substance within that conscious, a thinking man’s creed, to pardon the pun. The album is over-layed with innuendo and insight both reflective and contemplative.
From the mundane yet omnipotently practical, “That’s how it is, that’s how it’s going to be,” to the hopeful, “Dream of a peaceable kingdom, dream of a time without war,” the work echoes of a band comfortable with the wisdom of age and sincere in their concern for humanity. As well, it underlines a conviction in their belief, if the line “It’s a smile on the edge of sadness/ It’s a dance on the edge of life” is to be believed in a better means of existence, a hope for conscious.
As he has in the past, Peart investigates those things which make us human and develops the ideas which teach us to consider how we understand the world around us: “What is the meaning of this? / What are you trying to say? / Was it something I said? Something you’d like me to do? / And the stars look down...” In the end, he grants us the peace of mind to age, but to do so while still kicking butt.
The flaw in the album may exist in its failure to produce a single track which jumps off the CD as a classic radio play mainstay. That never has been the concept Rush has gone for, and other tracks, “Earthshine” and “Nocturne,” support a complete work driven to redefine the band as rock musicians. The final track, “Out of the Cradle” signs off with a cryptic message, “Here we come, out of the cradle, endlessly rocking, endlessly rocking,” suggesting perhaps their resolve to continue with their passion for rock and roll as long as they are able to pound out boastful melodies and intense music.
Vapor Trails may not find its way onto the Billboard Top 40, as few Rush releases have, but it remains musically a tricky and elusive investigation of sound. Still, like their other works, it will sell its gold-standard to a devoted following and will place itself proudly within the band’s anthology as a spiritual, esoteric piece of musical art which exists not for, but because of, its conscious.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Rock and Roll is on Life Support
All great empires eventually fall. That is the unrequited truth of history. We cannot stop it - nor are we supposed to. The long rises, reigns and perils of great societies have been documented elsewhere. This page is not intended for stories of history, it is merely the wonderings, ramblings and inquiries of one writer trying to find his voice. Sadly, one voice of our time is dying. You may have known him as R. N. Roll.
Mr. Roll rose up in the heyday of an American empire itself that faces unfathomable challenges in these days. Roll was a rebel, a savant, a clairvoyant, a punk, a garage filler, a dancer, a stripper and a harlot all rolled into one. But R. N. also had his softer side, the anima to compliment his animus. On that side, we heard the Sirens, the heartbreak, the wail, the intrusion, the hope, the future, the piano of our lives.
R. will hold a legacy that many will cherish and that some will do nothing more than willingly forget. For R.N. Roll was not met, he was ingested, and in the bellies of our mainstream he rose up to greet us head on, one-to-one or one-to-ten-thousand, but he never left us lonely. There were good times and bad times when good men and strong women had to run far away to avoid the nausea, the vomiting, the gut-wrenching that followed Roll's lifestyle. As well, there were those who stood to be soothed by the subtle charm, mystified by the electric brilliance, and dazzled by lights unseen, chords ever echoing and reasons unquestioned.
We are all fans, in one way or another. So, please, stand with me, ladies, gentlemen, junkies, alcoholics, lovers, winners, runaways, bus stop clerks, teachers, poets, politicians, doctors and prostitutes alike, as we prepare to bid farewell to R.N. Roll.
R.N. Roll is sick.
Rock N. Roll needs Hospice care.
Rock and Roll is DYING!
You did not even see it coming, did you?
Rock N. Roll recently reached middle age. Many historians pin 1955 as the birth of Rock. With that being accepted, it would be 55 years old now. No, it did not live to the ripe old age of 92 - only poets are afforded that opportunity. One might guess that Rock died of a massive heart attack - the final effect of a life of excess, debauchery and overexposure. Ironically, no. How did Rock N. Roll die? He just kind of slunked off into the night as the rest of us were watching idols and retreads and washed-up reunions.
It started as a half-time show, never mind the act, they all appeared to be the same by the turn of the most recent decade. Rock hobbled itself onto a barely built stage, ran through meaningless repertoire of a mindless montage played at semi-half speed, doffed a hat and went on to some trendy party in the foothills.
The first real signs of declining health came in the form of a Rock Hero Guitar game, played by unknowing children and clueless former fans of bubblegum pop. They spent the summer asking, "What song was that? Who played that? Is that really the title of that song?"
Not soon after, she appeared as metaphor, a commercial selling cheeseburgers or facial cream or even erection pills. Her condition worsened as she gave herself willingly to the newest cell phone. What a travesty! It even provided a copy of her newest song as a free ringtone.
Originally, Rock had a keen sense for business, but its purpose was never about the profit. The music had always come first. Later in life, he turned to concern over retirement and investment strategies - even an odd trust fund here and there. Scholars will later come to mark that as the beginning of the end.
She led a grand life. Along the way, a museum was named in Rock N. Roll's honor - in Cleveland, Ohio, of all places. Fitting, seeing as Alan Freed dubbed her by her given name there so many years back. Since, she has been called Grunge, Pop, Acid, Metal, Art, Garage, Psychedelic, even a savior once - just so long as you make no claims that she is as popular as any Biblical friends.
She was at once a Long, Tall Woman in a Black Dress, an Evil Woman, a Jessica, a Maybeline, a Pearl, and at the same time a Johnny B. Goode, a Johnny Rotten, a Sexy Pistol, a two-time Elvis, and even The-Mister-Duran-twice-over-each somehow as well.
She had her finer moments - a clash here and there, a kink to work out, a temper to throw.
But she is now dying, as near death as the legacy of the many one-hit wonders who have come and gone in her short but remarkable career.
And in that palace - that Rock and Roll Hall-of-Fame - is where the death knell began its somber toll, a tintinnabulation marking the trek to an early grave.
Rock was given due celebration recently as a new group of members joined service after years at her calling. While the stage looked like her typical show, Rock N. Roll was bamboozled. As he strutted his bare-chested glamour across a New York stage, socialites in black ties, tuxedos and three-thousand-dollar dresses sat idly by and watched the demise. They did nothing to try to save her. They did not rock! They did not roll! They did not demand an encore call! They did not rush the stage, scream for more or even mosh their nearest friend. They just sat there and clapped in rhythmic denial of her beautiful swan song.
A few witnesses screamed for help, but most just nodded and smiled in some deft reverence to her inevitable passing. After all, they had paid so much for the dinner.
Perhaps you saw it. The Waldorf Astoria was the location, and the event was the 2010 Rock and Roll Hall-of-Fame Induction Ceremony. It was anything but ceremony. It was a funeral pyre! Mr. and Mrs. Rock N. Roll never expected to be famous in the first place; now their eventual passing has been met with luke-warm applause and the tragedy has unveiled itself.
Those long-dead empires mentioned earlier all crumbled from within. Due to either arrogance or corruption, they simply did not pay proper attention to their simplest of needs. Their people went hungry, their leaders grew powerless and their enemies found easy rapture over their once-proud societies.
Rock has suffered much the same fate. It is as if someone left the back door open to a great gig (in the sky) and forgot to check the front of house for intruders, and in crawled the posers and look-alikes who had no artistic originality, no soundful skill and who were certainly not welcome. Still, they mosied to the stage and didn't so much as steal the show as snuffed it out in fear of a fire code violation.
Once the passion is gone from Rock, its soul withers quickly.
Somewhere between a Genesis it failed to acknowledge and a wanted Nirvana that never lived up to its hype, Rock became ill and began to die. And Who knew?
While Green Days have tried to save it, White Stripes have bandaged it in vein and some sort of Purple Haze still looms over its impending demise, it may be too late. No colorful soliloquy can bring about a miracle cure.
Twenty years ago, that induction ceremony would have seen tables toppled, fists furiously flying and even the occasional bra brandished toward the bar. Not at The Astoria! Rock and Roll was never meant to be played to black ties, it was made to drive you mad with its pounding, tear at your ears with its howling and leave you sweaty like a lover who still demands more from you.
The only hope is that somewhere out there in Australia or England or Germany or Russia or even Bosnia, Boston or Brussels, that a few angry lads are strapping on guitars and kicking into a chord that will forever drive them mad. If not, rock will die. Someone needs to re-energize her, for us.
In the end, we have tributes far and wide left to her greater legacy - the Mount Rushmore of Rock - effaced with Led Zeppelin, Rush, The Beatles and...you decide. It is too painful to chisel. U2? Metallica? The Eagles? Pearl Jam? Lynyrd Skynyrd? Areosmith? Who will fill the final spot? History will decide. Just don't kiss her or adorn her with guns or roses, she deserves more than such a creed.
Like all great arts, Rock N. Roll will not be forgotten, so in that manner she will live forever, but Rock as we know it is nearly dead.
Long live rock - but only in our minds. Rest now, for you are tired. We can only hope that it is not too late. Flatline would make a terrible name for a band.
Mr. Roll rose up in the heyday of an American empire itself that faces unfathomable challenges in these days. Roll was a rebel, a savant, a clairvoyant, a punk, a garage filler, a dancer, a stripper and a harlot all rolled into one. But R. N. also had his softer side, the anima to compliment his animus. On that side, we heard the Sirens, the heartbreak, the wail, the intrusion, the hope, the future, the piano of our lives.
R. will hold a legacy that many will cherish and that some will do nothing more than willingly forget. For R.N. Roll was not met, he was ingested, and in the bellies of our mainstream he rose up to greet us head on, one-to-one or one-to-ten-thousand, but he never left us lonely. There were good times and bad times when good men and strong women had to run far away to avoid the nausea, the vomiting, the gut-wrenching that followed Roll's lifestyle. As well, there were those who stood to be soothed by the subtle charm, mystified by the electric brilliance, and dazzled by lights unseen, chords ever echoing and reasons unquestioned.
We are all fans, in one way or another. So, please, stand with me, ladies, gentlemen, junkies, alcoholics, lovers, winners, runaways, bus stop clerks, teachers, poets, politicians, doctors and prostitutes alike, as we prepare to bid farewell to R.N. Roll.
R.N. Roll is sick.
Rock N. Roll needs Hospice care.
Rock and Roll is DYING!
You did not even see it coming, did you?
Rock N. Roll recently reached middle age. Many historians pin 1955 as the birth of Rock. With that being accepted, it would be 55 years old now. No, it did not live to the ripe old age of 92 - only poets are afforded that opportunity. One might guess that Rock died of a massive heart attack - the final effect of a life of excess, debauchery and overexposure. Ironically, no. How did Rock N. Roll die? He just kind of slunked off into the night as the rest of us were watching idols and retreads and washed-up reunions.
It started as a half-time show, never mind the act, they all appeared to be the same by the turn of the most recent decade. Rock hobbled itself onto a barely built stage, ran through meaningless repertoire of a mindless montage played at semi-half speed, doffed a hat and went on to some trendy party in the foothills.
The first real signs of declining health came in the form of a Rock Hero Guitar game, played by unknowing children and clueless former fans of bubblegum pop. They spent the summer asking, "What song was that? Who played that? Is that really the title of that song?"
Not soon after, she appeared as metaphor, a commercial selling cheeseburgers or facial cream or even erection pills. Her condition worsened as she gave herself willingly to the newest cell phone. What a travesty! It even provided a copy of her newest song as a free ringtone.
Originally, Rock had a keen sense for business, but its purpose was never about the profit. The music had always come first. Later in life, he turned to concern over retirement and investment strategies - even an odd trust fund here and there. Scholars will later come to mark that as the beginning of the end.
She led a grand life. Along the way, a museum was named in Rock N. Roll's honor - in Cleveland, Ohio, of all places. Fitting, seeing as Alan Freed dubbed her by her given name there so many years back. Since, she has been called Grunge, Pop, Acid, Metal, Art, Garage, Psychedelic, even a savior once - just so long as you make no claims that she is as popular as any Biblical friends.
She was at once a Long, Tall Woman in a Black Dress, an Evil Woman, a Jessica, a Maybeline, a Pearl, and at the same time a Johnny B. Goode, a Johnny Rotten, a Sexy Pistol, a two-time Elvis, and even The-Mister-Duran-twice-over-each somehow as well.
She had her finer moments - a clash here and there, a kink to work out, a temper to throw.
But she is now dying, as near death as the legacy of the many one-hit wonders who have come and gone in her short but remarkable career.
And in that palace - that Rock and Roll Hall-of-Fame - is where the death knell began its somber toll, a tintinnabulation marking the trek to an early grave.
Rock was given due celebration recently as a new group of members joined service after years at her calling. While the stage looked like her typical show, Rock N. Roll was bamboozled. As he strutted his bare-chested glamour across a New York stage, socialites in black ties, tuxedos and three-thousand-dollar dresses sat idly by and watched the demise. They did nothing to try to save her. They did not rock! They did not roll! They did not demand an encore call! They did not rush the stage, scream for more or even mosh their nearest friend. They just sat there and clapped in rhythmic denial of her beautiful swan song.
A few witnesses screamed for help, but most just nodded and smiled in some deft reverence to her inevitable passing. After all, they had paid so much for the dinner.
Perhaps you saw it. The Waldorf Astoria was the location, and the event was the 2010 Rock and Roll Hall-of-Fame Induction Ceremony. It was anything but ceremony. It was a funeral pyre! Mr. and Mrs. Rock N. Roll never expected to be famous in the first place; now their eventual passing has been met with luke-warm applause and the tragedy has unveiled itself.
Those long-dead empires mentioned earlier all crumbled from within. Due to either arrogance or corruption, they simply did not pay proper attention to their simplest of needs. Their people went hungry, their leaders grew powerless and their enemies found easy rapture over their once-proud societies.
Rock has suffered much the same fate. It is as if someone left the back door open to a great gig (in the sky) and forgot to check the front of house for intruders, and in crawled the posers and look-alikes who had no artistic originality, no soundful skill and who were certainly not welcome. Still, they mosied to the stage and didn't so much as steal the show as snuffed it out in fear of a fire code violation.
Once the passion is gone from Rock, its soul withers quickly.
Somewhere between a Genesis it failed to acknowledge and a wanted Nirvana that never lived up to its hype, Rock became ill and began to die. And Who knew?
While Green Days have tried to save it, White Stripes have bandaged it in vein and some sort of Purple Haze still looms over its impending demise, it may be too late. No colorful soliloquy can bring about a miracle cure.
Twenty years ago, that induction ceremony would have seen tables toppled, fists furiously flying and even the occasional bra brandished toward the bar. Not at The Astoria! Rock and Roll was never meant to be played to black ties, it was made to drive you mad with its pounding, tear at your ears with its howling and leave you sweaty like a lover who still demands more from you.
The only hope is that somewhere out there in Australia or England or Germany or Russia or even Bosnia, Boston or Brussels, that a few angry lads are strapping on guitars and kicking into a chord that will forever drive them mad. If not, rock will die. Someone needs to re-energize her, for us.
In the end, we have tributes far and wide left to her greater legacy - the Mount Rushmore of Rock - effaced with Led Zeppelin, Rush, The Beatles and...you decide. It is too painful to chisel. U2? Metallica? The Eagles? Pearl Jam? Lynyrd Skynyrd? Areosmith? Who will fill the final spot? History will decide. Just don't kiss her or adorn her with guns or roses, she deserves more than such a creed.
Like all great arts, Rock N. Roll will not be forgotten, so in that manner she will live forever, but Rock as we know it is nearly dead.
Long live rock - but only in our minds. Rest now, for you are tired. We can only hope that it is not too late. Flatline would make a terrible name for a band.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Classic "Here's Something Nobody Cares About..."
I thought it would be fun every once in a while to publish an essay from the original column I wrote in college. Today's is by complete coincidence. It was published twenty years ago - almost to the day! Originally published in "The Thielensian" newspaper on March 20, 1990, an original "Here's Something Nobody Cares About...":
As warm weather pays a humble visit to Greenville, I jump at the opportunity to once again view the world from my "window of inspiration." It is a quaint little spot on campus: comfortable, confined, cozy, and flooding with memories. With the coldness of winter now passing, I can write without being frozen solid to this construction which allows me to break all laws of gravity. In other words, I won't freeze my butt off! A number of months have passed since last I sat perched high above our home to contemplate the lesser important significances of this world called planet Thiel.
However, today, I go beyond Thiel, cross the border of Greenville, and reach far and wide over the vast expanse of our universe. Today, I embark on yet another noble quest, a quest for an answer.
QUESTION: Who are "they"?
The English speaking world uses the term "they" to apply to everyone who does something significant, or does nothing at all, but since no one knows these people, we refer to them as "they." An example: "they say it's gonna rain tomorrow"..."they should fix those damn potholes..."; and the most used cliche "they" statement, "they can put a man on the moon, but they can't..."
Who are "they"?
I personally believe that "they" are a group of high school dropouts strung out on Mountain Dew, BB-Q chips and MTV, who consider themselves to be noted experts on everything. Then again, "they" could be a group of seven philosophers who, after taking Doc White's courses, thought the world was theirs to rule. These philosophers sit around a well-lit, air-conditioned room, drinking Perrier (is that spelled correctly?) and eating finger sandwiches, whatever they are. And, of course, they all drive Saaaaaabs. Perhaps, "they" are three old ladies who have nothing better to do with their lives than to annoy us.
Whoever "they" are, "they" should form a conglomerate to solve the world's problems. Wouldn't it be nice to say, "A bunch of high school dropouts, seven philosophers and three old ladies found a cure for cancer."? That would ring so much nicer in the ear. Enough of that.
A WARNING: An ice-age is expected to hit in about 100,000 years. That is 36,500,000 days from now (approximately) plus 25,000 leaps days. So make sure to stock up on parkas, sweaters, and a lot of reading material. Rumor has it's gonna be a doozy! Don't worry, though, it's not until after finals.
As warm weather pays a humble visit to Greenville, I jump at the opportunity to once again view the world from my "window of inspiration." It is a quaint little spot on campus: comfortable, confined, cozy, and flooding with memories. With the coldness of winter now passing, I can write without being frozen solid to this construction which allows me to break all laws of gravity. In other words, I won't freeze my butt off! A number of months have passed since last I sat perched high above our home to contemplate the lesser important significances of this world called planet Thiel.
However, today, I go beyond Thiel, cross the border of Greenville, and reach far and wide over the vast expanse of our universe. Today, I embark on yet another noble quest, a quest for an answer.
QUESTION: Who are "they"?
The English speaking world uses the term "they" to apply to everyone who does something significant, or does nothing at all, but since no one knows these people, we refer to them as "they." An example: "they say it's gonna rain tomorrow"..."they should fix those damn potholes..."; and the most used cliche "they" statement, "they can put a man on the moon, but they can't..."
Who are "they"?
I personally believe that "they" are a group of high school dropouts strung out on Mountain Dew, BB-Q chips and MTV, who consider themselves to be noted experts on everything. Then again, "they" could be a group of seven philosophers who, after taking Doc White's courses, thought the world was theirs to rule. These philosophers sit around a well-lit, air-conditioned room, drinking Perrier (is that spelled correctly?) and eating finger sandwiches, whatever they are. And, of course, they all drive Saaaaaabs. Perhaps, "they" are three old ladies who have nothing better to do with their lives than to annoy us.
Whoever "they" are, "they" should form a conglomerate to solve the world's problems. Wouldn't it be nice to say, "A bunch of high school dropouts, seven philosophers and three old ladies found a cure for cancer."? That would ring so much nicer in the ear. Enough of that.
A WARNING: An ice-age is expected to hit in about 100,000 years. That is 36,500,000 days from now (approximately) plus 25,000 leaps days. So make sure to stock up on parkas, sweaters, and a lot of reading material. Rumor has it's gonna be a doozy! Don't worry, though, it's not until after finals.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Dog Days Not So Far Away
I've been thinking a lot lately about being a dog owner. While it is no surprise that we as a society are dog lovers, it surprises me more and more each year just how much we will tolerate because of our affection for these creatures.
First off all, has there ever been another species in existence that willingly cleans up the waste matter of another species? I doubt it. I am no biologist, but still I doubt it. Perhaps there is some weird-looking sea-scraping creature that cleans the ocean floor of fish fecal particles, but that has little to nothing to do with us.
Reports have surfaced lately that dogs react to the theme music from television's Law and Order in a very peculiar way. They yelp, they moan, they cover their ears with theirs paws. And, really, as much as I hate anything that is cute, what is cuter than a dog attempting to cover its ears with its paws? They just can't reach far enough to serve the intended purpose, so they look like a noodle that aspires to be a pretzel on the schoolyard of culinary similes. It is a stretch. But these dogs! Apparently, our canine friends are rushing under tables to protect themselves from the mysterious tones of this show.
I don't watch the show so I may never know if this is rumor, hearsay or both, but I will delight (just a little) in watching one of our dogs bark and scamper and howl if the show happens to be on when I am surfing through cable or whatever fiber-optic-satellite-junky-million-stations-with-nothing-on subscription that I happen to pay for every month. The dog gets to watch TV for free, by the way.
This is just proof that dogs are more than special. They are like little brothers in our lives. Trust me, I know! I am a little brother and never had a littler one to mess with. One cannot help but give a little brother a hard time. It comes with the territory - a familial pecking order of sorts. The family dog fits nicely into the process. I can pick on the dog without hurting him. I can call him stupid names while rubbing behind his ears and he does not feel offended or hurt, nor is he even remotely aware that one could be insulted in the first place. The kids can dress him to look like an absolute dolt on Halloween, and the creature does not know the difference. He just stands there as laughs are filling the room and photos are capturing the moment forever. Really, he is grateful the TV is off. He is the center of attention, and he takes it so well.
If I have a bad day, my dog meets me at the door as if the most exciting thing ever (ever!) is to greet a guy from Pittsburgh at the door. If I take my dog for a ride in the car, to him it is the best thing ever! Okay, enough with the exaggerated ever! joke. But a dog reveals the simpler things in life that we might overlook. Sitting in the grass on a summer evening is grand. If only the dog were smart enough to realize that he keeps smelling his own poop, he would be half the creature we are. As well, running down the street while I (with my wife and kids in tow) yell after him, "Stop! Come here, boy. No, do not trample Miss Johnson's daisies!" seems to be the ultimate pleasure for this creature. In truth, he is laughing at us. He knows that after he has had his run of the neighborhood, he will get the slice of bologna that was intended to lure him home. It's a "reward" for coming home when really he thinks of it as his treat for making us get the exercise we so badly need. Who is the fool here? Not the dog - I am! I know he will eventually return home, panting and flashing that adorable smile that suckers me in each time. And, he knows that we humans will convince ourselves that offering the pressed sandwich meat will somehow train him not to run next time. It is Pavlovian foolery at its finest!
And then there is the couch. A dog has a sense of entitlement, as if the couch is his throne. Where did this originate? I want to know who the first American was to let his pooch jump up onto the couch to sit and watch a baseball game with him. And then, I would like to beat that person with a rolled-up newspaper. Seriously, who ever gave the dog this idea? As soon as the first beagle or Lhasa Apso pulled it off, word went around the canine universe that people will allow their dogs onto the couch. Before long, Kansas City had a Labrador hopping on a sofa, Seattle saw a Collie sprawled out on the love seat, and some mutt in Texas was snoozing on a settee. Chaos took over! Pittsburghers watched Neil O'Donnell lose Super Bowl 30, and they almost wailed at the Spaniels, Pugs and Terriers sitting next to them in disbelief. The dogs had taken over!
So, what is next? We think they are cute and cuddly and warm and friendly, and they are. We love them. But, they are plotting against us. First, they had us doing their bidding. Then, they took over our furniture. Now, they are controlling the media! See, a coup starts in just this manner. A dictator always controls the masses through the news, right? Well, the dog in your house might now be avoiding television because of the harsh tones of a detective show. But mark my word, soon they will be switching the channel on you. Dogs no longer eat the remote control. They now understand that even without the opposable thumbs that have for so long "separated us from the beasts," they can press a paw upon the up/down button and rule our lives. Huh? See! You never saw that one coming, did you?
Look, dogs are significant. Dogs are wonderful. Dogs are the best, ever! (Couldn't resist.) As an example, I ask you, what is a girl's best friend? A diamond! A cold, heartless stone. What is man's best friend? The dog! A warm, loveable creature. I'm just saying.
However, we will soon rue the day when we first scooped poop, called pooch up on to the pouffe and ran around the block to call him home. If we are not careful, they will overtake the house and have us watching reruns of Scooby or live broadcasts of some New York Kennel.
They are plotting to take over our lives, I tell you. What else would they be doing all day just sitting there waiting for us to come home?
Until the next post...
First off all, has there ever been another species in existence that willingly cleans up the waste matter of another species? I doubt it. I am no biologist, but still I doubt it. Perhaps there is some weird-looking sea-scraping creature that cleans the ocean floor of fish fecal particles, but that has little to nothing to do with us.
Reports have surfaced lately that dogs react to the theme music from television's Law and Order in a very peculiar way. They yelp, they moan, they cover their ears with theirs paws. And, really, as much as I hate anything that is cute, what is cuter than a dog attempting to cover its ears with its paws? They just can't reach far enough to serve the intended purpose, so they look like a noodle that aspires to be a pretzel on the schoolyard of culinary similes. It is a stretch. But these dogs! Apparently, our canine friends are rushing under tables to protect themselves from the mysterious tones of this show.
I don't watch the show so I may never know if this is rumor, hearsay or both, but I will delight (just a little) in watching one of our dogs bark and scamper and howl if the show happens to be on when I am surfing through cable or whatever fiber-optic-satellite-junky-million-stations-with-nothing-on subscription that I happen to pay for every month. The dog gets to watch TV for free, by the way.
This is just proof that dogs are more than special. They are like little brothers in our lives. Trust me, I know! I am a little brother and never had a littler one to mess with. One cannot help but give a little brother a hard time. It comes with the territory - a familial pecking order of sorts. The family dog fits nicely into the process. I can pick on the dog without hurting him. I can call him stupid names while rubbing behind his ears and he does not feel offended or hurt, nor is he even remotely aware that one could be insulted in the first place. The kids can dress him to look like an absolute dolt on Halloween, and the creature does not know the difference. He just stands there as laughs are filling the room and photos are capturing the moment forever. Really, he is grateful the TV is off. He is the center of attention, and he takes it so well.
If I have a bad day, my dog meets me at the door as if the most exciting thing ever (ever!) is to greet a guy from Pittsburgh at the door. If I take my dog for a ride in the car, to him it is the best thing ever! Okay, enough with the exaggerated ever! joke. But a dog reveals the simpler things in life that we might overlook. Sitting in the grass on a summer evening is grand. If only the dog were smart enough to realize that he keeps smelling his own poop, he would be half the creature we are. As well, running down the street while I (with my wife and kids in tow) yell after him, "Stop! Come here, boy. No, do not trample Miss Johnson's daisies!" seems to be the ultimate pleasure for this creature. In truth, he is laughing at us. He knows that after he has had his run of the neighborhood, he will get the slice of bologna that was intended to lure him home. It's a "reward" for coming home when really he thinks of it as his treat for making us get the exercise we so badly need. Who is the fool here? Not the dog - I am! I know he will eventually return home, panting and flashing that adorable smile that suckers me in each time. And, he knows that we humans will convince ourselves that offering the pressed sandwich meat will somehow train him not to run next time. It is Pavlovian foolery at its finest!
And then there is the couch. A dog has a sense of entitlement, as if the couch is his throne. Where did this originate? I want to know who the first American was to let his pooch jump up onto the couch to sit and watch a baseball game with him. And then, I would like to beat that person with a rolled-up newspaper. Seriously, who ever gave the dog this idea? As soon as the first beagle or Lhasa Apso pulled it off, word went around the canine universe that people will allow their dogs onto the couch. Before long, Kansas City had a Labrador hopping on a sofa, Seattle saw a Collie sprawled out on the love seat, and some mutt in Texas was snoozing on a settee. Chaos took over! Pittsburghers watched Neil O'Donnell lose Super Bowl 30, and they almost wailed at the Spaniels, Pugs and Terriers sitting next to them in disbelief. The dogs had taken over!
So, what is next? We think they are cute and cuddly and warm and friendly, and they are. We love them. But, they are plotting against us. First, they had us doing their bidding. Then, they took over our furniture. Now, they are controlling the media! See, a coup starts in just this manner. A dictator always controls the masses through the news, right? Well, the dog in your house might now be avoiding television because of the harsh tones of a detective show. But mark my word, soon they will be switching the channel on you. Dogs no longer eat the remote control. They now understand that even without the opposable thumbs that have for so long "separated us from the beasts," they can press a paw upon the up/down button and rule our lives. Huh? See! You never saw that one coming, did you?
Look, dogs are significant. Dogs are wonderful. Dogs are the best, ever! (Couldn't resist.) As an example, I ask you, what is a girl's best friend? A diamond! A cold, heartless stone. What is man's best friend? The dog! A warm, loveable creature. I'm just saying.
However, we will soon rue the day when we first scooped poop, called pooch up on to the pouffe and ran around the block to call him home. If we are not careful, they will overtake the house and have us watching reruns of Scooby or live broadcasts of some New York Kennel.
They are plotting to take over our lives, I tell you. What else would they be doing all day just sitting there waiting for us to come home?
Until the next post...
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