Couch (cūch) Park Dog

On our way to the park, I was thinking that every time we come here late at night, no other person is ever here, let alone another fool and his dog. Once I had this thought and took five steps, oh doggy o’mine winds up accidentally scaring the only other loose dog who also happened to be at the park. I had let Roo off the leash and thrown her toy frisbee to her. She leapt and caught it only to tear across the field to say hi to other dog. Unfortunately, the other dog’s owner became quite frightened (because dogs with neon yellow frisbees dangling from their mouths are an obvious threat) and abruptly leashed up his big white dog. They quickly left in the opposite direction. His dog was quite a bit larger than Roo but maybe his dog hips were too old to deal with young mutts or he just had his nuts whacked and wasn’t supposed to play to that day. So they made tracks. Regardless, I was embarrassed for my dog screwing up their peaceful night. I soon got over it because his dog was already loose and mine just wanted to join. Peaceful shmeaseful. This is the city, soft belly, where things sometime reach an edge and you have to be ready for anything.

We and by “we” I mean “me”, had decided to then play a condensed version of frisbee by keeping the dog on an extendable leash. I could throw the frisbee tall into the air but not very far away as to be able to have her run and catch it while still attached to the leash.

Until I threw it too far and and foolishly thought that I could hang on while she bolted after that thing, I was soon tumbling like a yard sale down a mountainside in the middle of MLC field, attached to a single-minded gun dog chasing neon “prey”. The rain doesn’t always soften the ground but my bones sure seemed to turn to splinters as I thudded. Presently, I can barely take a full breath without my left neck aching. Dang dog.

I Am Who I Am

There is a need to write, express, impress, elude depression, devote time and thought into finding ways to seek acceptance and accolades by organizing words. This need is in my blood, my steps, my everyday meandering and whether I take the time to write or not, its always a conscious thought on the brink of action. Or more often, inaction! And as I face myself in this morning mirror about to attack a day at work I’m really not entirely excited about, I remember how fun it is to write. Regardless if it’s read by anyone or if it’s thoughtful or considered as anything but quick, silly, drivel. Having fun is paramount, everything else is droll duty. Haha. Doody.

Stupid Knee

Rock show. Folding theater seat. Violent knee injury. Work the next day. Emergency room day after that. Orthopedist. Noisy magnet tunnel. Waiting. Making phone calls. Appointments. More waiting. Diagnosis. Propensity for knee dislocation. Over-pronation. Iliotibial band. Sports medicine is my favorite kind of medicine and my favorite kind of therapist knows the body like god. 7 weeks to walk straight. With a new dog. And no disability. Slow elevator. Taking the pooch for a limp and a poop. Crutches. Cane. Brace. Hobble. Painkillers. Ice packs. Netflix. Damn standard transmission. Thank god for friends. And physical therapists. Finally returned to the walking world. Fearful of everything dangerous. Salivating at the chance to tempt fate again. Gimmie the streets. Like impending disaster. Tastes like candy. Gravity is a myth and the air I’m immediately breathing may be a final act. So I’d like to play, please.

Pooch

10 Things Imma Someday Write About

1. A woman from the dark side with a Vader mask and baker’s apron, doling out decadence with a sharp-witted jaw and perfect venom.

2. Oh my word…Shock like a light socket right in the flesh. Oh your words…Shot me like a rocket like a frightened wretch.

3. There are so few muses nowadays, rare, inspired, quick little ghosts slipping from one night to the next.

4. Soaking with blood, her uterus feels like it’s going to rot out of her vagina. Her young child is a reflection of herself, hips about to beat the daylights out of boys and bring the dangerous night into their barely weened world.

5. Insipid urban creatures whose dangerous, mainstream oblivion driven by consumerism is somehow validated by parading their vapid little children around like shining badges of absurd, accomplishment.

6. Now that the illicit affair has become passing moments of cordials, the strange metamorphic shock is still in my bones.

7. Many times, recovery uses condescension as a weapon of survival in situations where sobriety wavers on the tipping point.

8.  Hard to imagine an entire generation that had to endlessly toil just to stay barely fed. Or a single mom with two jobs riding the city bus.

9. I was out of money by 11 o’clock, everything doled out and squandered, my pant legs had become quonset huts,  storing things like winekeys, straws cut for toots, lighters, cocktail napkins with directions or phone numbers, a jumbled mess of items spelling out a mystery about to unfold.

10. Oh good lord, boozer brain with an ineffectual, intellectual hat and cane, impish like a simp, implicit asinine behavior that can only be blamed by tortuous amounts of whiskey, oh, the carnage that remains!

Emergency!

Remember that show? John Gage and Roy something-something? I used to love that show, it now reminds me of the babysitter’s near my school in North Portland.

Have you ever torn your kneecap outta place so hard that it looked like a piece of fruit hanging on the side of your leg? It’s a snapping, disgusting pain, one that turns a stomach and makes grown men weep.

Instinctively, I grabbed it and mashed it back into place as my horrified eyes gaped on.

It’s like Cane’s Anonymous in here, this clinic is teeming with geriatrics and septuagenarians, I feel like a fresh, newly conceived embryo limping into this waiting room, a callow little baby with a walking stick. Standing in line behind bright white sneakers and the stale air of deathbeds, khakis hiked just below big blu-blockers, my god, I can feel the Metamucil and Centrum flowing through their slow, tepid, trembling blood.

My knee has been blown out for nearly 4 weeks, my home incarceration is tightening its fingers around me and this depression from immobility knows no bounds. Medicated and sofa ridden, this body is shriveling up like a skinny sack of raisins. Where are any of my friends?

The sweet and pure science of sports medicine and therapy is one I will subscribe to for the rest of my life because this injury has given me insight to the future and how visible signs of aging are found in your shoes, pants, diet and exercise.

Sundays

Sundays at the pho joint is crazy with local Vietnamese. The vibrance and chattering din of the families, friends and the lovers fills this vast room, nearly bursting the big windows.

Rarely is there a better way a Sunday could be spent.