|Nurse? Burger flipper? You decide!|
Years ago a grocery store cashier told me that the saddest orders he ever saw were women who came through alone on Friday nights with a bottle of wine and some wet cat food, planning -- he guessed-- for a lonely night in. I was remembering that conversation last night as I observed my Saturday night festivities. There I was, sitting on my IKEA couch/bed/thing, listening to Twine Time, rolling my eyes at Paul Ray's coercive methods of working the KUT fund drive, knitting and-- of course-- conversing with the dogs, who'd arranged themselves in heaps on and around me.
To the untrained observer, I might've appeared pathetic. Saturday night and I'm knitting to the radio? But I could not have been happier. Because weekends are my crazy days. I was in the middle of a five-wedding weekend that involved hundreds of miles of driving -- on Saturday alone I went from Austin to Georgetown to Fredericksburg and back to Austin. Downtime respite is all I crave during my busiest wedding months, and-- for someone extremely slow to the concept-- now that I have learned about self-care, I know how to take it to wonderful extremes.
So there I sat-- after making myself a delicious dinner, which I ate alone by candlelight (not because, as in the old days, I couldn't afford the utilities, but because I wanted to)-- in my very fancy expensive-but-purchased-from-the-60%-off rack PJ bottoms, my Rufus Wainwright t-shirt, surrounded by my pack and... oh yes, wielding my iPhone. Anyone who has read the Steve Jobs bio, or even just the book jacket, knows that guy was a flaming asshole. But damn, I owe him a bottomless debt of gratitude. Because thanks to Jobs's vision, I can take endless photos of my dogs. Can and do. Can't stop. Might be so addicted to this pastime that I will wind up the poster child when OCDP (Obsessive Compulsive Dog Photography) shows up in DSVM. And trust me people, that day is coming, right around the time they officially recognize OCF(ood)P as an affliction.
Those of you who live a sad life deprived of canine companionship will, little doubt, be too... uh, what's the nice word for stupid?... to grasp what I say next but the rest of you will so connect that you'll want to come over here and sniff my butt and lick my feet and wag your phantom tail in hearty agreement. (Come on! What are you waiting for?) Dogs do something for me that most humans cannot. Whereas humans often fail me, dogs almost always lift my spirits. Few people believe this truth: the Myers-Briggs test identifies me as an introvert. You might shake your head in dispute, because you only ever see me out there in front of a mic. But trust me, for every half-hour I spend onstage, I need about 23 hours at home, talking to the dogs, to recharge Ye Olde Internale Batterie.
And so now I reveal the secret to my success at seeming so buoyant at work. Folks want to know, "Spike, how is it you can do up to thirty weddings in a month?" The answer is easy-- during those super busy months (I'm talking to you April and October) I spend every minute of downtime as downtime. Like a modern day game of CLUE I am Miss Muster New Energy, in the sitting room, on the IKEA thing, with the iphone.
Which is why I am now about to unleash on the six of you my smashing results of the past two days. But first, one more random thought. As I sat in my house, on the IKEA thing, taking so many shots, the voice of my lovely friend Kyomi filled my head. She's in her seventies and lives in Japan. Whenever I visit her, I say the same thing everyday as I head out for a day of riding the trains, "Don't clean my stuff!" I convey this through pantomiming and shouting slowly, since we don't share a language.
She always nods and smiles. Then I come home and find my underwear hanging on the line, my day-before clothes all clean and folded. "Kiyomi!" I say, faux-chastising. She smiles and says sweetly, pointing to the clothesline, "My hobby!"
Okay then, here's to hobbies! I hope you enjoy mine. (Please note their are no pictures of Tatum as she is now residing in that place that K calls Wolf World. Technically Tate is alive, but she's almost 14, post-stroke, and spends most of her time staring off into Wolf World, waiting for the door to open so she can pass through it.)
|New CD Cover|
|The doctor will be here soon!|
|I see you and if you don't get that fucking camera out of my face, I'm gonna rip your head off and shit down yer lungs.|
|I'm sorry, what part of, "I'm going to rip your head off and shit down your lungs" did you not understand?|
|Oh, I might not have the innate ability to officially flip you off, but trust me, in my mind I am so giving you the bird.|
|Snout, snout, let it all out...|
|My god, could you just lick those pink pads or what?|
|The piano has been drinking, not me.|
|Paws for effect.|
|Oolala mademoiselle! Tres sexy!|
|Belly up to the IKEA thing.|
|No really, aren't dog paws weird and amazing and AWESOME?!!|
|Do I need to ask that again?|
|Dante HATES it when I touch his paws.|
|Dante: "I'm sorry to bother you but I'm not sure you heard me before and I was just wondering: "Are you my friend are you my friend are you my friend are you are you are you?!!"|
|Rebound: "Le sigh. I'll be your friend Dante. Just as long as I can lick the crap out of you later."|