We recently switched our brand of cigarette, from Camels to American Spirits. We did so for two reasons. One, we find the irony of systematically poisoning ourselves with American Spirit amusing. Two, smoking American Spirits makes us feel closer to our Native American brothers. Once they lived in accordance with Nature in a world of limitless forest tracts, infinite plains, and vast mountain vistas. Now they live on shitty reservations in those ragged butt-ends of America so radically fucked no white man could even be bothered to steal them. We can relate. Not to being ripped off; we're a white male, and have had all the advantages a white male could expect. But spiritually, we feel like kin. Ours is a disenfranchisement of the soul. We live on a reservation of the heart separated by invisible boundaries of disgust from our fellow Americans, or at least those vast and stupid buffalo herds of our fellow Americans who find living in America to be anything other than a constant assault on their good conscience. There we make trinkets in the form of useless blog entries, which we attempt to peddle to the kindly souls who happen by. Pretty geegaws of futility, in turquoise and jade, that we fashion by hand in our tepee of inconsequence. This is one of them. It will fall apart when you get it home.
Occasionally, you hear a song from your past that is so terrible you managed to completely erase it from your memory. Such was the case, for us, with John Denver's "I'm Sorry." He certainly should be. "I'm Sorry" is a titanic anthem to self-pity and one of the most unintentionally hilarious tunes ever recorded, including as it does the immortal chorus, "I'm sorry for the way things are in China, I'm sorry things ain't what they used to be, but more than anything else I'm sorry for myself, cause you're not here with me." Is that great or what? Take a back seat, all 1,338,612,968 of you Chinks, my problems are bigger!
The other night, walking the dogs, we were privileged to see tiny perfidy in action in the form of our chihuahua Maddie. We were passing a huge doberman standing peacefully at a corner with its owner when Maddie, seeing her opportunity, lunged and seized the poor brute by the achilles tendon. He must have leaped a foot in the air. We were able to haul in Maddie by the leash before he was able to take retaliatory action, and we walked swiftly away with arrows of hatred being darted into our tensed back from both owner and pooch. Both our chihuahuas have demonstrated, over the years, that they're hairy little balls of infamy. They've also conclusively demonstrated that they're proud of the fact. Maddie walked taller for a good 24 hours after her attack; she wasn't a dog, so much as Pearl Harbor, with a tail.