The Mytholygy Of My Father's Penis

My father was a cad. He was a cad when he was married to my mother, he was a cad after he left my mother - not that I blame him - my mother was difficult.My father stayed a cad until he became to old to use his penis like a fire hose, instead of putting out fires, he would light them and leave.

I spoke to him today. He had put one of his cats down. He wasn't a cat person until he met my now stepmother of 20 years. Southern, smart, and owns a gun. She told him she would shoot it off if he dallied. He never did again.

Oh hell, maybe he did.

In the years after he left my mother and rose to become a macher in the garment industry. He made a lot of money. He moved to Malibu. He owned a Porsche and an Old Mercedes. He told tales of Barbra Streisand chasing him around a tennis court.

I remember seeing my father's stupid penis when I was very young. He stepped into the hallway naked. His long, red, powerful member at rest between his legs. When my mother taught me about the birds and bees, she informed me that making love with my father was like having sex with a machine. It was clear she didn't feel this was a good thing. Thus, my introduction to sex from my mother.

She was furious with him. I can't blame her. He left her with three kids, she didn't have a formal education and she had no way to make a decent living. This gave her a grand excuse to have a breakdown for at least a decade - I don't appreciate the way she let all her frustrations out on myself and my siblings - she behaved like a madwoman, and that was that. She couldn't control her emotions. She was the flame, her kids the moths, desperate for one parent to love them. She had been betrayed by my father- left alone with three kids while her erstwhile husband was fucking everything with a pulse in Malibu, forgetting to pay child support.

My mother once told me that she found naked photos of my father hidden (apparently not that well) inside a shoe box in his closet. He was naked in the photos, and mom made it very clear that she didn't take the pictures. Did I have to know that? No. I found pot in my father's closet while we were still posing as a family unit. Me and my friends smoked it. I was twelve and did not yet know about the naked photos he hadn't done a very good job of hidinghidden well.

My stepmother celebrated Christmas. She was a blond Shiksa Goddess. Being Jewish, I went with it because I liked her, but I never understood or cared for that holiday. When asked what I wanted for Christmas, I told my father I would like a thesaurus. My father asked me what a thesaurus was. At that moment I hoped I inherited my genetic material from my mother. She might have been crazy, but she was smart.

My dad was a gorgeous man. He used his looks to sleaze through life. He learned something about Art Deco before he crashed into drug abuse. He went from owning a multi-million company to ultimately managing apartment. At least he had my stepmother.

Once dad lost everything he decided it was easier for him to deal with his cats than people - and his children. Cats don't talk.

I never wanted to let go of my father. I wanted a daddy, even if he was a cad overflowing with sexuality. Using his sexuality was the only way he could relate to women, or his 16 year old daughter. Not that he ever touched me. He just didn't know how to look at me like a daughter instead of a woman.

I remember, when we were still pretending to be a family unite, myself, brother and sister got in trouble with my mother. She sent my father into our bedroom to spank us. He couldn't do it. Instead, he told he was going to make clapping sounds and we were supposed to scream in pain. It was nice of him.

At 17 my father's girlfriends were always just a few years older than me. They were tall, blonde, beauty pageant babes. I was a chubby kid. I know he wanted me to be thinner, more like his girlfriends. I didn't want to be his girlfriend.

My dad has had many cats over the years. His cat Topaz was the one he had just put to sleep. It wasn't as big a deal as Rusty's death (He wept over that cat for a year.) or Squeaky's passing, (Six months of weeping for that cat.) Topaz was feral when he and my stepmother took her in. While we were on the phone and he was telling me that he put Topaz down in a fairly calm way, I realized that in the cat-kingdom of his mind; I was Rusty, my brother, Squeaky and my sister, Topaz. My sister is getting married next month. My father doesn't even know about it because they haven't had a relationship since she was about nine. They don't speak. He won't be at her wedding. He spent too much time being a cad, and then he switched his attention to cats, my sister got lost in his process.

My father once told me that he went to the Actor's Studio while Ben Gazzara was there and when he had to leave (because he says my mother forced him,) Lee Strasberg begged him not to leave.

My mother says that's bullshit.

My father is a racist and believes that the Black Man has taken the White Man's jobs. I have no idea what he is talking about. He never votes and every conversation we have is about how miserable he is. Every-single-conversation.

My father has said three wise things to me: Go for the money, you can love someone and hate them too, and don't trust people who dress from other decades because there is something wrong with them.

I live in fear that I will become my father.

MY CAMELOTS - PART I

I pray that everyone has had a "Camelot" or two in their lifetime. My Camelots came in a string of events merging into forks in the road, changing me forever.



I don't talk about this much. My friends don't even know a lot about it. I even hesitate to write about it here, but it has been burning in my gut every since one of my remaining Camelots fell.

I guess I'm not the kind of person who likes to name names, especially when I come into contact or live through people who have, in their way, become a part of an artistic history, or just a part of memory that can never be wiped away. To tell these stories, and to pay homage to the people who changed my life - I bring you into my past. I won't hold back.



I was 25. I was an actor then, little did I know I was on the brink of becoming a playwright. Nor did I have a clue that my first play would give birth to the writer inside of me. I was 25 and auditioned for a Costa-Gavras movie. The film was called, "Betrayed." I would play "the friend" of Debra Winger. I got the part. My hair color was black then. I was in a punk period. The hair and make-up department on the film sent me to a crazy hairdresser whose shop was located in Sunset Blvd. It was Deco - Art Deco because I don't think it had been changed a whit since the forties. The stylist I was sent to was "old Hollywood" and told stories of coloring hair for Judy Garland and Marilyn Monroe. This "old Hollywood" master somehow turned my bottle-black hair to blond. Costa felt that Debra Winger and I shouldn't both have dark hair - I was a few days from turning 25, I had become a blond and was off to Lethbridge, Alberta, Canada. Where the fuck was that.



I had already started writing and work shopping my first play, "The Steven Weed Show." Steven Weed was Patty Hurst's boyfriend when she was taken by the "Symbionese Liberation Army." It was a sketch show filled with songs and choreography - but it hadn't come to fruition yet, and I was on a plane to Canada to be in a movie. I took all my sketches with me so I could work on them while I was shooting and send them to my director in LA. I didn't want the play to die.


My first play became another kind of Camelot in it's own way. I had auditioned for a rock musical based on "The Rise and Fall of the City of Mohagony." It was originally a Brecht/Weill play. I got the role. I wore a black wig and corset in the play. That wasn't a big deal, but it was fun. We performed in the parking lot of AL's bar in downtown LA. The parking lot was part of Al's Bar which was on the ground floor inside the American Hotel, a broken down, five-story building which was crumbling brick by brick. It housed junkies and transients. When we were on stage it was not unusual for someone to hurl a cantaloupe out of a cracked window from five floors above. The audience thought that was hysterical. We took it with a jocularity that only youth can. When I was cast, I met a whole group of young people, my age, from Detroit, who as far as I was concerned, were serious artists. It was Dominique who made the biggest impression on me. I was out of control in my twenties, or at least I thought I was, then I met Dom. Dominique had the spirit of Pegasus and the courage of Hera. I later learned that Freud interpreted Pegasus as an expression of the "Primal scream." That was Dom all the way. She was full bore. Full blast. One summer night we were driving down the 101 Freeway, she puked out the side of my crappy car and then, as if nothing had happened, pulled herself out of the window and lit up a smoke. I was impressed. Hell, I was in love.



I couldn't hold a candle to Dom, a brilliant, wild-child. She was a Camelot for me. I don't know if I would have written my first play if not for her. I watched as she worked on the play, the music, starred in it, and produced it, all with a brazen confidence of a true artist. I was getting sick of acting. Sick of small parts. Sick of sitting in trailers for hours and hours while a shot was being prepared. I was sick of not being in control. Sick of schlepping to auditions, parking off the lot, having to walk half a mile to some dank casting office while wearing high heels. (When I went on my first meeting as a "writer" I was offered a bottle of water, or a coke. I almost keeled over.)Acting didn't hold my interest anymore. It was on sparks of Dominique that gave me the courage to try and write for theater. I decided I would create a comedic, musical, sketch show - I was a comedy girl all the way.


I started writing "The Steven Weed Show" and in the middle of it, I left LA, and my then asshole boyfriend and went to Alberta Canada to play Debra Winger's best friend.




It was fine. It was a movie. I still didn't care that much about acting. I was focused on my play and was longing to finish it. Once in Lefthbridge, Alberta, I had a country Western dance lesson for a scene in the movie with Rustun, a local kid who was cast to play a guy my character picked up in a bar. Tom Berringer and Debra Winger were also part of the private class. Berringer was very cool, a funny and swell kind of guy. Winger was - she was what she was. A big movie star - I couldn't begin to understand that. She didn't seem to be interested in being "set friends". I was lonely on the set. I didn't really have any friends, or anyone to hang out with.


I spent nights working on my play. In my innocence, I asked the writer of "Betrayed," Joe Eszterhas if he would read some of my sketches. I wasn't intimidated, or didn't know enough to be intimidated by this handsome, big bear of a presence who had written, "Flashdance," "Jagged Edge," "Music Box" and "Basic Instinct" to name just a few of his works. He felt like a teacher to me. He actually read my work and gave me notes - while he was in production. It was kind of him. He was gentle with me. I had no idea he was helping me kick-start my career as a writer and all the amazing experiences - good and bad - that were to follow. But he did. As I write this I find it bittersweet that I never wrote him to thank him. To tell him how he accidentally gave me some extra strength by being generous with me and that my life from then on, would become the life of a writer. His small gesture of support sent me into a life of travel, studio notes, directing, sitting in writers rooms and all the rest that comes with becoming a professional scribbler. Thank you, Joe.


The set of "Betrayed" was magic. It is where I met two people who changed, widened and bested my life. Two different Camelots, two different stories to tell. Actually three. All interwoven, and split. I will, coincidentally start with a 15 year old French boy I met on that set named, "Aurthur Vuarnesson."


Aurthur, my French Camelot.


Sidebar - all that I am about to tell you happened because my first play, "The Steven Weed Show" which ran for over a year in a tiny Los Angeles venue called, "Theater/Theatre, was accepted into the Edinburgh "Fringe" Festival in Scotland. Dominique was in the show too, because Karma ain't that big a bitch. "Theater/Theatre" was ultimately bulldozed and turned into a Greyhound Bus Station in Hollywood. "The Steven Weed Show" took me across the pond. It was a Camelot for me, as are the two people I am going to tell you about. Friends who have past. One, a mother figure, a maiden of the arts. The other, a brother figure, a master of life.

Back to Aurthur , my French Camelot. I met Aurthur Vuarnesson on the set of "Betrayed." I was 24. Aurthur was 16. He was best friends with Costa's son. Aurthur came to be on the set from Paris, where Costa and his family then lived. Aurthur was a goof. He was a gangly kid, who chain-smoked, wore dark black, huge sunglasses, and had a wonky eye that stuck out of one side of his face. He was awkward, not exactly handsome, (I can hear him saying now, "Shit. I am gorgeous!" and laughing his ass off.) his skin was as soft as a baby's, and he dressed like a tourist. I didn't ask him about his eye. I quickly got past it because he was so funny. So surreal. So adult. He spoke English well. We would often sit on the floor of Costa's trailer during a night shoot. He would tell me about Paris, his family or about a girl named Emilie. We'd talk politics and he'd laugh at me a lot. He liked making fun of me because I was an American. "You don't know anything, you are an American. You can't even speak fucking French, you are an American. Shut up, you are an American." Yet, it was always with a wink in the eye and great laughter that would burst from his solarplexes. Arthur was a deep thinker. Often he would stare at the ground, the world of lights, cameras and grips obliterated from him while he was in this silent place. Arthur had a secret and I can't honestly tell you how I came to know this secret.

Arthur was dying since the day he was born. Yet, he wasn't dying at all. When I was with Arthur, all I felt was the strongest of life forces flowing out of him like bright streams of light. Part of it, I suppose was because he was irreverent and so damn funny, but part of it was also his lust for life. A guy who seemed to trip through the ups and downs of things like a tap dancer was born to die before his time.

It was his left eye. He was born with a tumor behind it. While writing this I wonder if this is why Aurthur was the kind of person who saw everything. Nothing got by him. Not in the world around him and not within relationships. They took the tumor out when he was a baby, much to his parents relief. The tumor came back when he was a child and he almost died. It was a problematic, malignant cancer hiding behind his eye. Through all his surgeries he never lost his sense of life. It was radiating from him like a volcano when I met this complex 16 year old French kid.

Almost two years later, when the "Steven Weed Show" went to Scotland, to the "Fringe Festival," I let Aurthur know that I would be in Europe. He invited me to stay with his family in the middle of Paris. His family owned an apartment building, where all the family lived, in the midst of the hustle and bustle of Paris, where I had never been before. I stayed in a guest room that overlooked a city square, twinkling lights and cafes. Aurthur's parents were lovely, warm people. Aurthur lived in his "room." Most of us grew up in our "rooms" as kids. His was downstairs with a bunk bed and I think bright green beanbag chair in it. Some nights, Arthur had to study for school. One night I was going on a date with a French guy. Arthur's mom pulled me aside and schooled me on the dangers of Frenchmen. I didn't know then that the only Frenchman I would ever love was her son, Aurthur.

Charlotte, Aurthur's tomboy of a pretty, little sister spoke almost perfect English. These kids were sophisticated. I thought it might have been the way they were schooled. It never came to mind that their maturity came from living "in" the world - not like the way I grew up, in a country far from others, a world of a country to itself. Aurthur and I took walks. Talked about everything one could think of, especially this girl named "Emilie." I met his friends, ran around Paris, was given a key to his home, and spent a lot of time, by myself, walking the streets, sitting in cafes and writing in journals.

I can't say exactly when I met Aurthur's "Emilie." She was the ocean to his Ulysses, she was the song to his Soloman, the Cleopatra to his Anthony, she was the Alexandrea to his Nicolas II. It may sound grandiose, but it was true. A great love story in time when love stories belonged to the wise - it's just that these two young people were wise, not beyond their years, within their years.

Maybe I was introduced to Emilie on my second trip to Paris. I stayed with Aurthur in his own apartment. He was in university. Aurthur was a graphic artist. His private specialty were his one-line drawings. Amazing in their simplicity. His signature works. Emilie was a commanding beauty, tall, with long thick hair. Her face almost that of a tiger, with her large, majestic eyes, freckles and luxurious mouth. Emilie wasn't one to over-dress, she was casual. French women aren't casual like Americans. They don't look like slobs. I can say that as I sit behind my computer looking like a slob. French women look put together without effort. It's got to be genetic, or in the water. Something in their genes makes them look grand in jeans and a tee-shirt. Don't ask me. Emilie was grand. Man, she was gorgeous. I was intimidated by her. She was a thoughtful girl. When friends were around, Aurthur kept most of his boyhood friends, she was given to laughter, squeals and made sure everyone hanging at Aurthur's was comfortable. Emilie and Arthur had different styles. He wanted you to be welcome too. Aurthur, would sit in his chair at his round table in the kitchen and anyone could have anything they wanted, all they had to do was get up and grab it.

Aurthur always knew that Emilie was his pit-stop. When they were younger I would often watch Emilie gaze at Aurthur with questions in her eyes. As they got older the questions became answers. Their language became their own. When they were younger, she had questions. On one trip to Paris Aurthur and I were walking along the Seine. I was complaining about something-or-other that was going on in my life. Aurthur said, "You have small things to worry about. I don't know when I will die." That shut me up for a time. I still complain. I'm Jewish. That is in my genetic make-up, or maybe it's just the water.

After one of Aurthur's surgeries, of which he had many, because the tumor behind his eye, in his brain, was relentless, I flew him to LA. I rented him a red, convertible. He drove it around like he was a rock star. I have pictures of him grinning from ear to ear as he leaned on his most awesome convertible, with a smoke in his mouth. On that particular trip my friends Dan and Marya, who had once been a couple, but were trying the "friends" thing, were driving to Mexico. In my experience Europeans are fascinated by Mexico. Maybe because it's a different dessert from any they are close to - as well as a distinctive culture. After hanging out with Aurthur one night - just one night - Dan and Marya asked him if he wanted to ride down to Mexico and camp with them. Aurthur jumped at it. On the drive down to Mexico, Aurthur and Marya were smoking. Dan asked them to stop. To which Aurthur replied, "What's the matter with you, are you some fucking faggot?" Marya burst out laughing. That was Aurthur, he just didn't play.

The next time I was in Paris, and staying with Aurthur, he had asked Emilie to marry him and she had told him, not only did she need to think about it, but she needed time apart. He was in anguish. Emile did have a lot of thinking to do. She loved him, that was clear as a sparking gem stone, but could she, did she, want to try and build a life with a man who could die on her? Emilie grew to be an artist in her own right, although she never completely embraced that in her youth. She danced, acted, could have been a model - she was that tall and striking. She took beautiful photos and ultimately made short films that were conceived with a style unique to only her vision. I can imagine Emilie blushing and shaking her head with a resounding "not true" to this statement. When Emilie parted from Aurthur, it was the first time I saw him walk through his world in melancholy. I don't know what he was thinking. Thinking about a short life without Emilie. Thinking about a long life without Emilie. He felt that without Emilie there was no world at all.

Sometime after that (I wonder if I have these sequences correct) Aurthur and Emilie arrived at my apartment, travelers. They used my place as a base and tripped through California and surrounding areas. They were happy, healthy, Emilie, her tall self, radiated a kind of happiness she didn't let show much. Could she have been pregnant by then? I can't remember.

What I do remember is that Emilie did marry Aurthur. It's not an understatement to say that she made him the happiest man on the planet. He knew, you see. He always knew. She knew, but Emilie, in her way, knew more. Emilie and Aurthur had two babies. Gorgeous. What can I say, it's in the genes, not the water.

Aurthur was my Camelot because he made France a home for me. Not just Paris and beyond, but he shared his family and friends with pride. My parents were not travellers. They came from Brooklyn. They barely went to college. They married young, because that was what you did in those days, and probably never loved each other. For me, Aurthur's parents were an insight to a world I never knew. A world where parents loved each other and children were safe. Home was safe. No one was having a nervous breakdown every day. The Vuarnessons were practical, emotionally clear people. They raised two talented and balanced kids. Great kids. I can't say enough wonderful things about Aurthur and Charlotte. The Vuanressons raised their kids together. Aurthur showed me what that looked like. He showed me what his "path" was with Emilie. I always have a home to go to in Paris. My French family, I call them to myself. I miss my French family. Aurthur gave me every part of himself over the years that I knew him. His goofy parts, his best parts, and his melancholy. Who was I? Some little-known American actress who he met on a freezing cold set one night in Canada? Who was I to be brought into the lives of these people, in this foreign country and be treated like a native - one of their own? Who was I to live with this story, never told, always in thought? Someone on the sidelines watching his life unfold - and even though I felt included, I was allowed to be, had permission to be an observer to this Camelot.

The last time Aurthur's tumor came back, there was nothing the doctors could do. In the end, with Emilie at his bedside, he lost his vision. Emilie told me that one of the last things he did was draw a single line drawing of his face. It is on his tombstone. Aurthur died at 34 years old. As I write this, I am uneasy. I realize that he passed on April 9, 2004. Today is April 10th. I have no explanation.

I wasn't there when Aurthur passed. I wasn't there when all of his friends let go of balloons that seared into the sky and became its part. His children have grown. They are loved and happy. I keep in touch with Emilie. She keeps asking me when I am coming to stay with her and the kids in Paris.

I do not know when I will go back. The last time I was in Paris Aurthur was still alive, nested in his Camelot - which became mine - which I give to you - knowing you have your own.

END OF PART I

IN A BOX

My dog is in a box.

Nat, my French girl-buddy brought him home today. His remains. In the box. She picked up the box at the vet for me. I thought if I did it myself I would go all limp and hysterical in the waiting room, then some technician would hand me a box, and everyone in the waiting room would see the box, know what it was, and get really spooked because clearly my dog's remains were in there. The waiting room would go silent. Animals owners would look at me with fear, or sympathy and I wouldn't know how to handle it. I couldn't let the people in the waiting room handle it themselves. I imagine that I would have to handle it for all of us. I guess I believed that I would have to take care of all the weirdos in the waiting room. During Harper's sickness and our weekly visits to the vet, I met many a bonzo animal owner in the waiting room. I never told anyone he was sick.

Waiting room freaks in an animal hospital have no boundaries. I was sitting alone in the waiting room one Saturday and there was an old man sitting near the exit door. Maybe the guy was in his early 80's. He has a cat the size of a moose in a wooden antique carrier. I didn't want to talk to the dude. I'm was waiting for Harper to get his chemo. I don't think there are more freaks in a circus than in a vet's waiting room. OF COURSE he HAD to talk to me. Rambling on about some wild raccoon he took in who ate everything in his bathroom.Then there was this:

Freaky Old Man- "My buddy and I used to go hunting."

Me - "Really?" (Oh God shut the fuck up.)

Freaky Old Man -"Yeah, so my buddy had a German Shepherd too. Just like yours."

Me - "Fab-u-lous." (Harper was a German Shepherd mutt.)

Freaky Old Man - "So we're out hunting and my buddy's Shepherd starts chasing after a wolf."

Me - "Fab-u-lous." (I already knew this story will not end well.)

Freaky Old Man- "Yeah, so we're out hunting and my buddy's dog starts chasing the wolf and you know what happens?"

Me - "I don't have a clue." (Please don't tell me whatever you are going to tell me.)

Freaky Old Man- "My hunting buddy's dog chased the wolf over a cliff and they both fell to their death."

Me - "Awesome. Thanks for sharing."

Freaky Old Man - "Yeah, my buddy was pretty upset."

Me - "You think?"

Freaky Old Man - "Then I took in a wild raccoon and --whitenoisewhitenoisewhitenoisewhitenoise...

Why would he feel the need to tell me such a horrible story? A wolf and a hunting dog run off a cliff. Gee, let's go have some mojitos now and party! You're a terrific story-teller. Mark Twain had nothing on you! I want to hear more! You MUST have a story about how you once roasted a pig on a spit, only to discover in the darkness of your campfire that it was really a domesticated cat! Oh you are a card!

The guy was the devil. He was wielding an invisible sickle. I wanted to kick his pruned ass. I wanted to beat him with his walker. He didn't seem to have any empathy for his buddy's hunting dog. He didn't have to seem to have much empathy at all. He seemed like a guy whose kids don't talk to him anymore. A vet's waiting room is kind of like an airplane when you are reading a book and the person next to you has no intellectual spacial relationship. Just the need-need-need to ramble and the rest of us be damned.

Harper's remains are in a silver box with his name and the date he died - 01-23-03 carved on the sleek, silver box. The box is inside satin box of some kind, magenta velvet on the outside. My dog is not in that box. Only his remains. The silver box is fucking heavy too. It's soldered together as well. The edges are sharp and could cut through glass, so it's not like I can carry it around and cuddle with it. My dog is in a very uncomfortable box, except he's not in the box.

I have three cats in three boxes. Plain, wooden, light, they're all tucked together on the bottom of a dresser in my changing room.

I woke up this morning and there was the box, staring at me. It says, "Harper 1/23/09." Frankly, it's fucking freaky. I have to get him out of this tomb. I need a drill or something. His life was pure joy. He's remains don't belong in a heavy silver box.

I had to pitch over the phone this morning for a job I have and I just kept thinking, "My dog is in a box, my dog is in a box, but he's not in a box, but he's in a box." What do I do? Take the bog to a jeweler and ask them to open it? "Don't mean to bum you out, but there's a dog in this box."

Maybe I could take it to the garage around the block. They don't speak a whole lot of English. And they're Russian, so they should be used to finding strange things in a box.

He belongs in a beautiful scarf with his name embroidered on it.

AND WE SWITCH GEARS --

Dog is out of the box. Dog is wrapped a two beautiful scarfs until I can figure out what to do with him.

My friend Shale came over. Strong, silent, true-blue, guy. I showed him the box.

I said, "Look at this box. You could cut an artery open with the edges and bleed out. Is it soldered together, because it looks like it is. I hate this box, it creeps me out. I have to get him out of this fucking box. I'm hot. I'm bloated and I think I'm getting my period. Can we open this fucking box?"

Shale - "Well, I've got a saw, but it's going to be messy."

Me - "Can you do it over a bowl?"

Shale nods, unconvinced. We survey the box. It has little round, fat peg legs at the bottom. Shale begins to twist one. "These'll come off, but it may still be soldered."

Me - "Why? That's impossible. Don't people need access to the ashes so they can throw it in the ocean and shit?"

Shale nods, unconvinced.

The bottom of the treacherous box does open, and tactfully, the ashes are in a bag.

Steaming tears start flowing down my already warm cheeks, "Okay, good. He's out of the box. He's out of the box. Okay."

Yes. This is good.

I wrap his remains, already living in a fairly strong plastic bag with a round sticker that says, "In Loving Memory of Harper" on it. I wrap it in two strong, silken, vintage scarves until I can figure out what to do with him. His remains. The remains of him. Not him. Just the finality of him.

I suddenly realize if someone from Animal Control reads this they are going to come for me.

HE'S IN A VERY THICK, HERMETICALLY SEALED, PLASTIC BAG - until Sunday, okay? Then I am going to go to the swap meet by my house and find something to put him in.

Something sanitary.

Something beautiful.

For now he sits on my desk as I type this.

Not Harper, but the finality of Harper.

GONE

It is 2:35 in the afternoon. Harper just left this earthly plane.

My mother said - once, when he was very sick, that he came into my life at a time when I needed him. It's true.

I am afraid to wash my hair because I will wash him off me.

He is inside me on a cellular level.

He must have been a monk in a past life. A very high seated soul. Everyone who met him spoke of what a good dog he was or how well behaved he was or how well trained he was; that was him. He came into this world with the same temperament as when he left -oh so soon.

He has almond eyes. I can feel him with me. I don't think it is the grief. It is the most amazing sensation. He is still here, lingering over the land. Doesn't have to go anywhere yet. Making sure I'm okay. I called out for him and he found me. I felt him find me as I feel him brushing past my heart.

My beautiful almond-eyed boy.

THE BIGGER THE BETTER? (KEEP AWAY FROM CHILDREN!)

I am sorry to depart this information to all you guys who have been living with this confused mythology for your entire lives, but here is the real - bigger is NOT better.

If I am being unclear let me clarify - a big penis is not a better penis. As a matter of fact a big penis is frightening.

No-no-no, don't be thinking, "But, that's what women want."

No, that's what YOU want.

Imagine this. Something, (a penis) the size of a baby's torso, erupting from your Calvin boxers, coming right at us. You imagine we are about to swoon with the glory of the size.

You know what we are thinking?

Get that thing away from me. Put it back. I have to run. Maybe there's a way I can get to the street and hail a cab, or just run home in my bra and underwear.

Know what? I don't have the stomach to go there. Let me just say this. Our vagina's are not made out of leather.

Imagine this if you will. You are on your knees or your back and someone is shoving a baseball bat down your throat over and over and over, saying things like, "Aw baby, you're so good. Take me baby. Take all of me." You, are gagging.

Nice mythology - the thought that a bigger penis is a better penis.

For all you men out there who have spent your lives feeling insecure because you do not have a penis the size of a lamb shank... chill out. We like you best.

Know what's better for women when it's bigger?

JEANS!

We LOVE it when our jeans are are a lot bigger on us then they were the week before. Talk about a sensuous feeling? Loose jeans, being lifted past our thighs with ease, resting quietly on our bellies, without having to wrestle the buttons.

FUCK DOES THAT TURN US ON!

Yes, a nice piece of fresh fruit and a big, huge, pair of comfy jeans that do not fit us makes us want to make love to ourselves.

"Wait!" You're thinking "I don't want my woman in some pair of fat ass jeans that hide her fine ass from the world!" Ah, but isn't that what it's all about? Perception. The world. Images on your computer, images of girls with blooming bodies, Photo-shopped, no doubt, on some hag's visage, with a nose job, Botox for lips, and hair so brittle from bleach, she's wearing a wig anyway.

You're an idiot. However, everyone is entitled to their fantasies.

Just keep in mind. There is one fantasy that does not hold true. (See baseball bat example above.) Porn penises hurt. We can't walk right for days. We look like cowboys who just crossed, "Red River." Some of us have to use crutches or canes after an encounter with a large penis. I know of a woman who was stuck in a wheelchair for a seven weeks.

You know what we like that is big?

CAKE! We like huge pieces of cake. Cake is luscious and yummy. Cake makes us feel giddy and warm. Cake envelopes us. Cake gives us a sneaky, blushing high.

Just like your normal, less than normal, or a little bigger than normal penis. When a penis is fine and fits, knows how to shimmy and shake - it is even better than cake. A very close second.

Know what else we think the bigger the better?

HUGE, DIVINE BATHS.

Yeah Calgon, baby. Take me away.

The bigger the bath the better. We are warm, enveloped, the water brushes ever so gently around our skin. Our bodies free-float through wet, hot, scented bliss. We drown in the luxury, soft waves, relaxed, complete.

We like bigger jeans, cake and baths. We do not like this...


Not.

Want to please your woman? Please yourself. Enjoy who you are and what you have because I promise you, your woman, or any woman would.

Leave the myth behind.

And make us scream.

HE CALLED

I want to smoke.

In public places.

I want people to to go mad and yell at me because they had a family member who died of cancer, scream that I don't know what I'm doing to my body, holla about how I will give them cancer from second-hand smoke, bellow because I am an asshole for trying to kill everyone around me.

I am grouchy and full of self-loathing.

He called tonight.

I had back surgery not even two weeks ago. I have an angry wound bouncing through the skin of my lower spine where my portly, distant Iranian surgeon shaved down my L4 and L5.

The post-op directions say that you are supposed to walk a mile. 9 days after my surgery, I walked a mile. My portly, distant Iranian surgeon's eyes bulged out of their sockets as he scolded me. Apparently one walks a mile three months after an operation on the spine. In my defense, the post-op directions do not say "when" one is supposed to walk that mile. The post-op instructions strongly encourage the patient to walk said distance as soon as possible. I was showing off. In doing so my body did punish me for two days after. I have humbly taken it down to six blocks.

During my first consultation with the portly, distant Iranian surgeon, I had a few questions for him after the scolding for my egotistical mile.

"How long will it take for me not to walk like an 85 year old woman?"

"Three months."

"When will I be healed?"

"Three months."

We looked at my X-rays taken moments before in his office. The X-ray room smelled like pee and old burritos.

"So, what do my X-rays say?"

"They say you just had surgery."

"Okay, but really, we're looking at my X-rays. So tell me what you see?"

"I see that you just had back surgery."

Fuck you.

He called tonight.

I want to put ketchup on my face and lay half in and half out of the road, so when a drivers stop to see if I am okay, I can run away from them. Except I can't run. I just had back surgery.

He was sharp and distant with me the last time we talked on the phone. He didn't call me back Sunday night. I am not this person. I do not weave my identity up with a man's. My self-worth does not depend on the attention of a man. My being is independent. I don't need the love of a man I love to prove that I exist. I am not the person who asks the man she loves to tell her over the phone five things that he likes about her. I am not the person who pulls a fish out of that dangerous pond.

I never want to be that person.

He called tonight as if he had called the night before and the night before -- but he didn't call the night before and the night before.

I never want to be the woman who acts like a crazed, neurotic, female.

Sometimes I don't get what I want.

I feel vulnerable because there is a new scar beating like a drum on my lower back. It's only five inches long. Maybe I am afraid because I forget that I am healing.

I forget that I am healing and take his tone, which is his tone, more seriously than usual. Normally I ignore his tone or find it amusing because his actions are that of a guy who flies straight, does right by me and stayed with me for a week after my surgery, getting up almost two hours earlier than usual so he could get to work on time. His actions drown out his tone.

I don't feel connected. I miss being intimate, so much so that I woke him up at four 'o clock in the morning and did him right. I was bursting, missing his skin.

He called and told me about cheese. I whined. Whined like a girl. I want a do-over. I want to behave. I can't take care of him if I don't take care of me.

I want to do butter some Challagh and watch the 2 hour version of "24" that is saved on Tivo.

I want to scream at someone. Kick a door in. Body slam a wall.

Is this how someone feels after back surgery?

He called. I had two days of things to tell him. He is a strange fellow. I understand him, more than he knows. I understand him deeply, but that doesn't make him easy. I am not easy when he is not easy.

I am not the self-assured, top-bitch, know-it-all, screw-them-if-they-don't-get-me person right now.

I am listening to the rain pour outside as Bono sings on my Ipod . "Sometimes we can't make it on our own."

I hate myself for not being the person I want to be.

He called.

WISDOM

My new therapist, a wiry, handsome man who wears two-toned glasses that match the colors of his office, and seems to have endless patience, told me to focus on the things around me, no matter what they be.

I am now staring at a pack of American Spirit Lights which is turned over on it's side. I am looking at the lid, open, faced away from me as if saying, "You want me, work for it. Turn me over, right me, look how you left me, lying on my side, my top open like a women waiting to be entered. I am inert, Schepps. If you want it, make me right."

Of course I know this is not the purpose of the exercise my new therapist has given me. I am not to let a pack of smokes yell at me. It is not the purpose of the exercise for the canary yellow, American Indian laden fags to punish me with it's glare. (And no, I don't mean fags like gay men, I mean fags like the way the Brits call cigarettes, "fags." It's a long in the tooth bit of slang, so don't get pissed and e-mail me with anger. I might not be the most politically correct person in the world, but I like language. I just can't spell for nothing.) The purpose of this exercise is for me to focus on what is before me so I can be present. When one is in the moment, truly, there is no anxiety.

At least that's what the exercise is about.

Yet I turn it into a way to be harsh with myself - this is exhausting.

We also did a "visualization" exercise. My new, empathic therapist put two smooth, rounded, tear-shaped devices in each of my hands. He then had me put a headset on. The devices in my hands softly vibrated as the head set chimed in with a dim, unobtrusive buzz which played in time with the vibration of the devices in my hands - a buzz in my right ear, a soft, almost soothing shudder in my right hand. While I was hooked he asked me if there was a place where I said I felt the most myself.

"Ireland."

"Ah, Ireland. Nice. Beautiful. Where in Ireland."

"At a writer's colony in a mansion in the middle of nowhere."

"Ah. Cool. Beautiful. A castle or a mansion?"

"I think it was a mansion. It held private rooms for like, over a dozen artists and there were private quarters that housed artists in the back of the mansion. Those artists were in residence. I was only there for a month."

"Wow. Cool. Yeah. That's cool. Where did you stay?"

"In the mansion. In my own room. It was large. It had it's own fireplace and a window facing into the woods. I worked at a desk that looked through the window into the lush green. I had a single bed, there was a rug on the hardwood floor -- and stuff."

"Stuff. Wow. Cool. That's amazing. Beautiful."

What I didn't tell him was that I had a short affair with a beautiful painter who showed up for group meals named, Des. He had that fantastic, sultry Black-Irish coloring. He was a deeply depressed boy with a gorgeous outlook of doom. Even his love-making was dark. Des, wasn't mean, he was just sad, sad in his bones. He was the perfect Irish lullaby.

My new soft-speaking, soothing therapist asked me to paint a picture in my mind of my room in Ireland, what it looked like, what the chair I sat on as I wrote felt like, and somewhere in finding my safe place - I drifted off. When I awoke the session was over. My mellow, super compassionate therapist told me to make sure I wasn't dizzy when I stood up. I told him I wasn't, but I was. I just wanted to be tough is all.

Yesterday, I wasn't feeling well. I went to my safe place. It was filled with monsters. I got the fuck out of there as fast as you can say, "Get the fuck out of there."

Today is my birthday. I am exhausted. I can't find a safe place. I think the writer's strike kind of broke me. It took me out of my body and the life I knew for so long. Oddly things are back on track now. Pitches are being pitched. Deals are being made. I still don't feel the way I did before the strike. I can't seem to get back into my body. I hover above myself - and that is a very tiring indeed.

I'd love to find a suction device to pull myself back into myself, can't locate the equipment.

Life is moments. My boyfriend is out of town on this my birthday. His job sent him to a conference. Before he split, he somehow snuck a present into the house. I found it after he left. In the gift bag was a card that said, "Don't open until Friday!" Today is Friday. Today is my birthday.

I didn't open the package. I waited. I called him today so we could be on the phone together. He got me Lalique perfume. Last week he presented me with a Lalique statuette. I collect Lalique. It was wonderful to be on the phone with him when I opened the Lalique box.

I've made some bad choices in my life where men were concerned. Line up. I'll bend over and you can kick me in the ass, because if you saw the men I have invited into my heart, you'd want to kick me in the ass. Not this man. Not this man at all.

He is my safe place. There are no monsters with him.

In this moment, I feel grateful, grounded, beautiful and loved.

I don't have wisdom.

All I have are moments.

I share these with you.

The Fuck Dance

Since my last article I have had to move to another safe-house as the Ya-Ya-Sisterhood-of-the-Traveling-Pants have put out a Jihad on me for publishing trade secrets. Me, I just want a decent relationship as much as you do. So at the risk of my own life, let’s get down to business. I speak now of the familiar tribal custom which shall formally be known here as The Fuck Dance. And it goes a little something like this:

You’ve met her. She rocks your world. You’ve got a non stop hard-on for this woman. You would do anything for her, even go down to the nearest store and get her a box of Tampons. She feels the same way. She’d do anything for you, even watch you and your loser team play softball in the bone-chilling cold. All she wants your hands on her. Everything you say is funny to her.

This is what we commonly refer to as the honeymoon phase. And while it lasts, there ain’t nothing better.

We all want it to be easy. But life comes down on the honeymoon phase as quickly as a trannie on Eddie Murphy.

One day—oh, say about 6 weeks in—you find you’re no longer thinking about her all the time. You go back to work. She goes back to work. You start attending your weekly poker game again. You no longer leave a meeting to take her calls at the office. You begin to compartmentalize again. You’re serial multi-tasker. Your mind functions like a Rubik’s Cube. She doesn’t understand this. All she knows is that you seem to be preoccupied, pulling away. As far as you’re concerned, you’re not. But she’s beginning to wonder if you still care as much as you did when you were spending 24/7 in the 69 position.

You, being the serial multi-tasker, eventually get around to noticing this. So you decide to go out of your way to a mall after work to get her a little something-something. She’s your wet dream girl. She deserves it. Hmm…flowers? No, they die. Might as well burn money. Jewelry’s out of the question—it’s just a little token gift.

Ah—there it is, tempting you from every Gap-filled corner of America: Victoria’s Secret! You come home with a beautiful, delicate peignoir. Pink—kinda virgin-whore fantasy. And with the tiniest little thong.

Yum!

Your sweetie greets you at the door with a warm hug, a deep kiss, and then she eyes the package. For her? How will she ever thank you?

Blowjob of course—you know that’s coming after she opens her gift.

Or maybe not.

The minute she sees the lingerie she stands up and throws it in your face.

And so the dance begins:

She: “Oh, really? So in other words you expect to get laid tonight?

Translation: “Since when do you decide the fate of my pussy?”

You: “What did I do?”

Translation: “What the FUCK did I do?”

She: “This isn’t a gift for me, it’s a gift for you.

”Translation: “Work’s been a real bitch and my mother is driving me crazy and now you come home with this synthetic sex-bait and expect me to bend over ass up?”

You: “I just wanted to get something for my honey.”

Translation: “Maybe I was wrong about her. Maybe she’s one of those crazy bitches who’ll cut my cock off while I’m sleeping, like the last one who peed in my closet.”

She: “You can’t just spring this on me. It puts me in an awkward position. It makes me feel like I owe you sex.”

Translation: “The honeymoon is over.”

You: “Hey, I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Translation: “Shit is the honeymoon is over?”

Sadly, yes. You’ve had your six weeks of blowjob bliss, now it’s time to pay for the piping. I’m not saying there won’t be periods that remind you of the honeymoon stage. But the reality is, if you want your needs met, as you get deeper into this relationship you’re going have to do some work.

Not that it’s going to be a constant battle or you’re going to have to go at it hard like Olin Curtz and Fred Miller—you’re just going to have to be smart.

But don’t worry, I’m gonna school you.

Women are like new baseball gloves—you have to work them in and grease them up until they get all soft and curve to your every digit. If you’re gonna do that for a new baseball glove, you might as well do it for your woman too. It’ll make your life a helluva lot easier.

Rule #1 is: Never, I mean never, make the assumption that bringing home lingerie to your girl is going to pop her weasel. She really will think it’s a gift for you and not her. She will feel like she is trapped and obligated to bang you. This will piss her off and you will be eating kibble out of your not-so-theoretical doghouse.

You need to do some prep work if you’re gonna get on the fuck dance floor.

Buy the lingerie, sure, but let’s be honest—it is a gift for you, too.

So to get what you want and what she wants, you’re going to have to man up and put in the work. This means a few days prep before you treat her to your favorite lingerie.

Tell her she looks unusually pretty in the morning.

Ask her if she’s sporting a new dress because her figure looks fantastic.

Rub her back when you pass her by.

Kiss her on the forehead for no apparent reason.

Do the dishes just because.

And if you really want to get her in that thong thing, take out the garbage without being asked.

She’ll want you so bad she’ll have that virgin/whore lingerie on faster than Ben Johnson can run the hundred-yard dash.

Of course you still care about her.

But now you have to show her.

That takes a little work.

It’s the fuck dance, gentlemen. It’s not that difficult.

Just remember to grease the glove.

HARPY

This is my dog, Harper.

Three weeks ago, Harper was diagnosed with Lymphoma. My Vet, who is a very colorful Egyptian man, called me and gave me the better-sit-down-are-you-sitting-down, news on a Friday.

I raised Harpy from a puppy. He is close to six years old.

I wonder if my depression during the WGA strike did it.

I wonder if I gave him enough walks.

I wonder if he got bored because I wouldn't take him to the public dog park. Ironically, a place known for dog fights and doggy deaths.

I wonder if he didn't know how much he is needed and loved.

I wonder if the adoption agency was too aggressive in getting Harper fixed at all of three months old. He came out of the operation sans one testicle. They couldn't find the other. They thought it might not have dropped yet. Harper had a second exploratory where's-that-damn-testicle surgery when he was six months old. Our surgeon couldn't find the missing ball. He was pretty sure there never were two balls on my dog.

Harper was born with one Cujones.

That's ball in Spanish. But I didn't spell it right.

Not baseball. Testicle ball.

My vet, Egyptian, metaphysical with a mouthful of big, funky teeth informed me years ago that if there was indeed a testicle hiding in Harper -- it could cause cancer.

One can look for ever reason in the world and there is no reason.

At first I walked around like a zombie. Unable to compute that the canine I loved most - more than chocolate, more than winning a lottery or wearing a size zero - my love, my puppy, has cancer.

We found out because he wasn't eating. He's always been picky, but I had begun to force-feed my lad. That couldn't go on much longer. After paying out $3,000 for one test or another - after dishing out a whopping $3,000, (which I didn't have post WGA strike) they honed in on the concept of cancer.

Lovely Lymphoma.

My vet lost his own dog two years ago and has not gotten over it. He was closer to his dog than to his wife. (I wonder how she feels about that.)

The vet and I vetted a plan. Harper would be given acupuncture once a week while listening to the docile sounds of a river bed on CD. I would toss herbal supplements down his gullet to boost his immune system,. Our Egyptian vet would add a little cortisone, some vitamin shots for good measure, and special food. AP Science Diet, which Harper seems to think is dog caviar.

Harpy is not eating as much as I would like him to today, although he gained2 1/2 lbs since he was diagnosed. Our treatment schedule became the little engine that might.

My homemade beef livers help.

Harper has always been a very gassy dog. Now he's uber gassy. Given a mile circumference anywhere near Harper at any given time, he can give off the fumes of a toxic waste dump - think Chernobyl meets a broken garbage disposal.

Harper likes the sound of his own voice. Given the opportunity he will bark at anyone who passes by our house. I live in a walking neighborhood, which means he barks most of the time.


If he barks, he is well. If he eats, he is well. If he poops, he is well. Harper is a little late on the poop today. Maybe the cortisone hasn't kicked in completely yet.

I have a crazy neighbor. He is a lawyer for potheads. He once called animal control because of Harper's barking. He also called my friendly landlord to complain about the tardiness with which I bring the trash cans in off the street. You know, trash cans can get so cold and lonely on the sidewalk. However, once the lunatic lawyer for potheads found out I wrote on a show called, "Weeds," he wanted to be my buddy. He showed up at my door, "just to say hi," give me his card and see if he could get a consulting job on the show. I guess he had forgotten that mere months ago I had called him to find out why he was picking on me and instead of engaging in an adult conversation, he slammed his phone down instead.

If you ever meet a lawyer for potheads by the moniker of Bill -- only we will be one degree of separation.

Harper is lying on the hardwood floor in this 1920's house. He is a foot away from me. I have given him his herbal drops once today. They are part of a detox program devised by our vet.
Harpy is given the drops three times a day over a four week period. After four weeks, the Egyptian Vet is going to do something with his blood. Add new blood or exchange the cleansed blood. I have no idea. I can only take this thing one day at a time, one hour at a time, which can rapidly dissolve into minutes.

Our vet speaks very fast. He has a wide smile and doesn't smell like super-obsessed Americans who take at least two showers a day while using deodorants, perfumes, lotions, powders and pills to keep them smelling lovely. I smell the vet's musk every Saturday, when he puts his acupuncture needles into Harper.

My boyfriend found a needle in Harper's leg the other night. He is humoring me. He thinks the Egyptian vet is nuts. He thinks I am nuts for laying hands on Harper once a day and doing visualizations. The Egyptian vet suggested crystals too. Don't think I won't try it.

I meditate on my dog and try to flush out the mutated cells and dark energies. I replace them with clear, cleaning energy which I feel flowing into my dog at the pace of a waterfall.

We are energy. Everything is energy. Can it be manipulated? I choose to believe so.

Harpy is the softest German Shepherd/Lab ever. He has almond eyes and the soul of a poet. He is sensitive. He is a drama queen. He is fully beautiful.

His lymph nodes have not gotten larger. I will continue to feed him beef liver, cooked chicken, table scraps and anything he is willing to eat on his good eating days.

I am no longer a zombie. I am in take-charge mode. That being said, there is a current of anxiety beneath my skin that is a constant. There is a tug on my broken, yet hopeful heart. I will keep him strong for as long as I can.

I will try to beat the monsters back.

With the help of our Egyptian vet.

Today, all I want from Harper is a big doodie.

at 9:39 AM Posted by Shawn Schepps


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GLADIATORS

This is Willowby.

I know, butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.

He belongs in the CIA. He should work for the Mossad.

I believe he has a chip in his head, it goes off every once in a while. "General Willowby, it is time to take out Albania."

Harper was diagnosed with Lymphoma three weeks ago. When my Egyptian vet called to tell me the news, I wanted to die. But then I realized that I couldn't leave Harper alone.

Harper is the first dog I have had as an adut. I got him when he was 3 months old. Now he's close to six years old. I could wax philisopic about how unfair this all is.

Is tribal warfare in Africa "fair?"

Are girls under 13 in Bancock being rented out and getting AIDS "fair?"

Is anything in the Middle East "fair?"

You might find it offensive, me comparing my dog's sickness with the world's atrocities.

One always hears, "Remember, people are starving in China."

Yes, people are starving all over the world. However, if you're not starving in Cambodia, it's doesn't relate to your urban-cellphone-Hummer-Gucci-housekeeper-life.

Uh, wait, that's not my life. You get the gyst.

I can only relate to the eventual loss of one of the greatest loves of my life. Harper. Be real, there is nothing like "dog-love." They are unconditional, always happy to see you, trust you and won't leave your side.

Harper is doing okay now. He's on different holistic medications. He's gaining weight.

And he's trying to win battles with Willowby.

Oh, don't feel bad for Willowby. He asks for it. Harper is over sixty pounds. Willowby is maybe 7 pounds. The two of them wrestle like gladiators.

Willowby likes to go for the neck. He ambushes Harper constantly. Harper can put Willowby's entire head in his mouth. Harper would never hurt Willow. He plays fair. When he gets sick of being ambushed, one slap of his huge dog paw puts Willowby down.

Sometimes I come home and Willowby is wet and gooey.

He's been in Harper's mouth again. General Willowby's chip goes off and he jumps Harper as if he were a desperate junkie in an alley.

Harper is Beta. He was raised by myself and three older, very cranky cats who wanted nothing to do with a puppy in the house.

Harper defers to most animals. Hey, he's only a dog, you think he's going to let Willowby win?

No.

Harper has begun to hump Willowby in an attempt to be the Alpha Dog in the house.

Yes, a sixty-something pound dog is taking back his power by humping a seven pound cat.

Sometimes we have to take our power back no matter what.

Harper is.

THE "FIRST TIER GUY - HE NEVER GETS LAID"

DISCLOSURE: All women are crazy, but you have to live with them.I’m female. I don’t think like you do.

I’m living in a safe-house right now because I’m writing this essay. I’d rather my own sex not try to hunt me down and kill me as I try to change our world. This is vital stuff, guys. I’m giving away trade secrets here. So, let’s get down to work. In the sacred words of Rodney King, “Can’t we all just get along?” Frankly -- I have hopes.

"The First Tier Guy - He Rarely Gets Laid."

You and your buddy are going out for the night. Hit a club. Hit a bar. Find you some ladies and get your groove on.

You’ve got your game on. Maybe you’re sporting some Hugo Boss, or D&G, with a little a little Armani thrown in for good measure. You work out. Carry a Blackberry, and have a clean shave. You don’t smell like someone threw a bucket of Aqua Velva on you. Your nails are clean. You are ready to throw down.

Your buddy, who you’ve been friends with ever since college, has always been a fuck-up, but that’s okay, he’s good people, he cracks you up. He’s going out tonight with you. He’s wearing baggy jeans from The Gap, an oversized Fubu tee, and Bono-esque fly glasses. He bites his cuticles, doesn’t have TIVO yet, and still calls the ladies, “dude” to their faces. You’ve called him a pig, told him to grow up, but he’s not that guy. Guess what? You let the man be, cause he’s your boy.

He’s the Second Tier Guy.

You know it. He is oblivious to it -- yet he’s way more likely to get laid than you, Mr-Hugo-Boss-Blackberry-carrying-First-Tier guy. How can this be possible, you’re thinking. You smell better than he does, you can actually dress yourself, and you make your bed in the morning. Why are the odds on his side? I’m going to explain it to you.

First, let’s look at your gender of choice… mine.

Two women are going out to hit the bars and do a little clubbing tonight too. They’ve been friends since they met at a book club years ago. They’re both hot. One is a blond. One is a brunette. They wax, get mani-pedis on a regular basis, work out, and their breasts are real… and real nice. They’ve decided to take a taxi to the club or bar tonight in case they meet someone.

See, and this is where I hate to disappoint you, these girls are NOT going out tonight to get laid. They want to meet a nice guy. They’re sick of dating. They want to settle down. They want a boyfriend. They want you to call once a day to check in and see how they are. They want to introduce you to their friends and family. It’s not that they want to marry you right away, it’s just that they want a man in their life. One man. That’s why they are taking their waxed-bodied-manicured-toes-and-BCBG Max Azria- strapless dresses to hit the same hot spots you are. Makes no sense, right? Polar opposite needs that will never be met -- or so you think.

Second Tier guy may have a girl in his bed tonight.

This is the madness of evolution, guys. It’s Darwinism at its worst. Ever since we have crawled out of the slime only to become primordial beings that hunted and gathered, we’ve been at cross purposes. Both sexes have elemental, primal chips in our brains. Yours tells you to spread your seed. Ours tells us to find the strongest mate possible and create as many offspring as possible to continue this, our human race. You are absolutely right to want to go out there and get as much mad pussy as you can. Thing is, you ain’t gonna get the pussy if she doesn’t think there is a possibility you are her hunter and gatherer.

This is where the First Tier Man falls into the Vortex -- and the Second Tier Guy gets the girl.

You and your buddy see these two beauties in a booth at the bar you both happen to be at. You grab your buddy who is stealing maraschino cherries from the bar and pull him over to meet Blond and Brunette. You ask if you can join them. The invite you to sit down. You, the first Tier man, like Blond. She has a fresh, dewy look to her. You can almost feel yourself inside of her. Your buddy is left with Brunette.

You order drinks for all and keep them coming. Blond is impressed. You ask her name.“What’s your name?”
TRANSLATION: “Are we going to do it tonight, cause I’m buying all the drinks here?”

She says, “I’m Daisy.”
TRANSLATION: “Generous guy. He’s buying us all drinks. And he doesn’t smell like someone threw Aqua Velva all over him. I wonder if my mom would like him?”

You ask, “So what brings you ladies out tonight?”
TRANSLATION: “Getting your swerve on?"

Daisy says, “Oh, we just wanted to get out. Cut loose. Have some fun.”
TRANSLATION: “I hope he has a job.”

You say, “Yeah, me and my buddy here needed a night out too. Been working too hard.”
TRANSLATION: “Okay, I lied. I am just here to get laid.”

Daisy seems to relax after her first drink, “So where are you from?”
TRANSLATION: “I hope his parents are still together and he likes kids.”

You answer, “I just moved here from Chicago.”
TRANSLATION: “I just moved here from Chicago three years ago, but maybe she’ll think I’m lonely and sleep with me.”

Daisy says, “You have the most amazing eyes. I’ve never seen a color like that before.”
TRANSLATION: “He’s definitely boyfriend material. He can dress. He’s polite. And he’s not putting the moves on me like some kind of masher. If I keep throwing the compliments at him, maybe I’ll have a shot. Doesn’t hurt to put my hand on his forearm lightly. He’ll definitely think I’m interested -- in having a boyfriend.”

Daisy pust her hand on your forearm ever so gently as she smiles at you, a warm, sexy smile.
TRANSLATION: You are in.

But, you know what? You’re not.

Across the table Brunette and your buddy are having their own conversation.

You’re Buddy says to her, “Dude, you into the White Stripes? I can’t stop playing them in the car. Hey, the waitress didn’t bring lime with my tequila, bummer.”
TRANSLATION: “Dude, you into the White Stripes? I can’t stop playing them in the car. Hey, the waitress didn’t bring lime with my tequila, bummer.”

The Brunette says, “I’m not really into the White Stripes, but I’ll order more tequila with you.”
TRANSLATON: “My girlfriend got the good one and I’m left with this loser in Bono fly glasses. Might as well get loaded.”

Your buddy says, “Cool, let’s do some shots. By the way, nice tits.”
TRANSLATION: “Cool, let's do some shots. By the way, nice tits.”

You’ve charmed the pants off of Daisy -- figuratively. She likes you. Seems to respect you. Hangs on your ever word. And why shouldn’t she? You’re first Tier guy. It might have been nice if she would have drank a little more. But you have mad skills. This deal is closed. Or is it?Across the table, your buddy and the Brunette are getting hammered on your dime.

Your buddy says, “What’s your favorite movie? Mine’s “The Godfather.” No, “Scareface”. No, you know what, if they could put “The Godfather” into “Scarface”, that dude, would be the perfect movie. I have both on DVD at home."
TRANSLATION: “Wanna come to my crib, and fuck to “Scarface?”

Brunette says, “I’m not really into violent movies. I liked, “The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants.”
TRANSLATION: “Damn this tequila is making me horny. He is kind of cute in an ADD kind of way. I haven’t gotten laid for like three months. Daisy’s all hemmed up in the First Tier guy. I’m not going to let this night be a complete fucking waste, I waxed. And anyway, maybe he’s a good kisser. It’s not like I’ll ever have to see him again. If he asks for my number I’ll give him my ex-boyfriend’s. I’m drunk, hormonal and he seems like a fun guy to throw down with.”

The Brunette says, “I’d look at your DVD collection.”
TRANSLATION: “I won’t fuck you to “Scarface” but I will fuck you.”

The bar is closing down. Both you and your buddy have been preoccupied with your potential hook-ups. The girls kiss each other on the cheek, no animosity involved. The Brunette goes off with your crazy buddy.

You, lucky dog, get to take Daisy home. Things couldn’t look more promising as you tip the valet and hold her car door open for her. Her legs are smooth, soft and shiny in the half-mast moonlight.

Your buddy parked on the street. He and the Brunette are arm in arm, stumbling to his car.

You walk Daisy to her condo. She’s demure, erotic and sweet. You watch her soft, bare shoulders as she fumbles for her keys.

You say, “Maybe I could come in? Have a night cap?”
TRANSLATION: “Let’s knock boots.”

Daisy says, “Know what, I would, but I am so tired. And I’m afraid if I let you come in and we have another drink, things will get, you know, out of control. And I really like you. I’d like to see you again.
TRANSLATION: “This guy is perfect. If I let him in and he gets me to bed, I’ll be waiting by the phone every day until he calls. And if he doesn’t call, I’ll be all depressed and eat a pint of Hagen Dass every night for a week. Anyway, I can tell this guy had morals. I don’t want him to think I’m easy. Guys never go for girls who are easy. Better I test him out and see if he’s sincere. He seems sincere, but still, I want him to want me, and he won’t want me if he’s had me. Maybe on the third date, when I can tell if he’s serious, but not tonight. I want to lock this guy in.”

Daisy asks for your Blackberry. You give it to her,confused. Why isn’t she letting you in? You’re First Tier Guy.

Daisy, smiles at you, a bedroom smile of things to come as she puts her information into your Blackberry.

She says, “Call me. I’d really like to see you again.”
TRANSLATION: “You’re not getting into my panties tonight. You’re way too much of the perfect hunter and gatherer. You’re going to have to work for it.”

She kisses you on the cheek and lets herself in her condo, locking you out. Locking you out? First Tier Man? You stand there in the florescent glow of her hallway. You’re stunned. How could this happen? It was all going so well.

It’s that primordial chip, my friend. She saw you as a POTENTIAL. It’s the most dangerous thing a guy like you looking for some pussy could be.

You walk to your car, frustrated, pissed. You erase her number from your Blackberry. All you wanted was a booty call. You are, after all, the First Tier Man.

At your buddy’s place, he and the Brunette and sucking down more tequila and shagging like there’s no tomorrow. Because there isn’t. Not for this relationship.

Second Tier Guy got some, if for no other reason then she was in the mood and he was clearly not boyfriend material.

So guys, as I sit here, looking out the window at my little herb garden in my safe-house, I can only tell you this. Sometimes being the First Tier Guy can be a problem, because despite the fact that you don’t feel like being relationship material, most woman are going to think you are. This leaves you alone at the end of the night, with your credit card maxed out, looking for your favorite porn DVD.

Trying so hard to be the First Tier guy isn’t really helping your game.

Next time wear Bono fly glasses instead.

America

“AMERICA”
by
Shawn Schepps

Los Angeles – Late Summer – 2006 - David called me. David is this independent producer guy I had known for years from just being around. So, David calls me. He says, hey, listen, I’m working with this Russian producer … Boris.

Let me take a step back here. All names used tonight have been changed to protect the innocent, me, I’ve altered these names so no one kills me. I don’t mean kills me like, yells at me. I mean kills me as in pushes me off building, or sends me radio-active pie or something.

Anyway, David calls, very enthusiastic, and tells me that he is working with some Russian producers who are great, they are making an indy film based on a book, the movie is green lit, the money is there and it’s going to shoot in Moscow.

Boris wanted to see me --

I wanted to see Moscow --

I met Boris the Russian producer in his condo in Westwood, which he called a penthouse just because it was on the top floor.

He was chilly. Told me to come in and sit down. Boris checked me out like a horse he might purchase, would I perform, was I strong, could I be broken, would I run.

“So, you write dialogue fast?”

"Yeah, I write dialogue fast."

"Good because we need fast. And what you think of book?"

Oy the book. The book was an unpublished manuscript written by a high ranking member of the Russian government. The author was in his mid-fifties -- liked to hang out with lesbians in karaoke rooms. His unpublished novel was about two under-age girls who go on a journey to follow their idols, a girl band called, “Piercing.” While the two girls are following this band they lie, have sex with each other, have sex with different guys, shoot up, get raped, someone OD’s, they live in train stations, fall asleep in their own vomit, one of the girls kills the other’s girls mother, they ended up in a with two life sentences in the gulag where Piercing comes to play as they watch through their prison cell. BEAT It was like reading Bukowski squared to the Edger Allen Poe power with no skill except for the skills involved in being a huge fucking pervert
I told Boris the truth. I think, that there is no way, you can make a movie out of this source material that anyone is going to sit through.

Boris took a minute, looked at me like I was a dog and said, Yes, I agree. But what you do about it?

I launched into what I would do about it and ended my pitch with -- but I couldn’t write anything about Moscow without seeing Moscow.

"So, I send you to Moscow."

That’s how I ended up in Moscow, sitting at some small, broken down studio, think KTLA meets Compton, in a dinky, dim office at a long table surrounded by Russian producers, guys in their fifties. Boris, David my American producer and Sasha, who they called the fertilizer king because during Yeltsin’s reign he managed to acquire enough manure to become the one of the top three manufacturers of Russian shit.

And then there was, Rasputin. My arch enemy. Boris may have looked at me like I was a dog, but Rasputin looked at me like I was a cunt.

Rasputin was I’d say 6’5” easily, big man, big chest, big belly, pink faced, a self-proclaimed woman hater, alcoholic, chain smoking, narcissistic bully who talked in a voice so strained it sounded like his balls were tied together under his pants. He had white hair, the breath of someone whose liver is screaming get me out of here and eyes were so blue and sociopath you never knew when he would snap and go for the neck. He was some uber-rich fucking gangster who had made three B movies and thought he was Scorsese. I was under the impression I had been hired to lighten things up. Rasputin was having none of it.

"Shawn, you don’t know what you are talking about. This is love story. This is movie about relationship. The spectators who watch this film -- he meant “audience”, the spectators want sexy movie. Tragic movie. These girls kill commit murder to see their favorite band. You don’t understand, you are incompetent, this movie has meaning, and you have to develop meaning, but you do not understand meaning, so how can you write movie? You don’t understand this movie. I am the only one who understand this movie! Boris why you bring her? This is nightmare!"

At which point he threw up his hands and stormed into his office, no doubt to smoke his 97th cigarette and drink two bottles of vodka while David, Boris and the fertilizer king froze in passivity.

When I got back to my hotel room I cried. It was a big cry. A scared cry. What had I gotten myself into? I just wanted to see Moscow and write a quirky little movie.

David and I were taken to a French restaurant built to make you feel like you were entering another century and dining in the wine cellar of a castle. Tasteful, extravagant, and exclusive. Boris and Rasputin were there waiting for us. As soon as I saw Rasputin’s bloated, face loaded with broken capillaries, I thought about my two best girlfriends. I imagined how they might handle this unruly situation. I knew exactly what they would do.

I sat down next to Rasputin. I looked him straight in those psychotic blue eyes and I said, "Look, you’re not allowed to talk to me like that. You are not allowed to disrespect me. You are not allowed to tell me that I am incompetent, or that I don’t know what I am doing because I did all the research before I came here, I read the book, I made my notes -- and I’ve also had three films made, and mine, all of them, were hits, they made money, they were fiscally successful -- so don’t tell me I don’t know what I’m doing -- and do not disrespect me in front of other people."

Later that night when all the film investors had gathered, while everyone was chowing down on pate and steak, slamming vodka after vodka, chain smoking and laughing, Rasputin stood up. He made an awkward speech about how thrilled he was to have David and myself with them to celebrate the beginning of their movie and what a special American writer I was -- Rasputin, hammered and feeling generous, lifted his glass to me. He didn’t smile. Even when he tried, Rasputin lacked even the charm of well, let’s say -- Rasputin.

After dinner, I was thinking sleep, but no, these guys party like, look these are fifty-some-odd year old men and they party like bacchanalian heathens. It’s one club after the other. The producers and investors, drink vodka like crazy people. Shot-after-shot-after-shot-after-shot… Oh and by the way, if you’re ever in Russia, here’s a little tip -- don’t sip your vodka, you have to knock it back, because it you drink it slowly, people assume you’re an alcoholic. Isn’t that cute?

It was every night with these guys, huge gatherings for dinner, the fertilizer king always by my side ordering vodka after vodka., food and vodka, vodka and food and security guys sitting around in Armani suits carrying guns, Rolls Royces, tricked out, high end Mercedes, Jaguars, designer everything, stunning mistresses, conspicuous consumption and glory.

Days, I went location scouting in Moscow, that’s the reason I was there, to see it. The villages were bleak and desolate. The roads, if you could even call them roads, had been neglected, forgotten to the extent that they were severely cracked and rose up with the tension of the earth. The houses were small, fractured, dull and sinking into their foundations.

I wandered into what could only be described as a ghetto filled with communist-era apartment buildings, the windows covered in graying lace, dirty towels and bare clothing lines. There was an abandoned muddy playground. It had rusted monkey bars and benches with mold on them.

This was mother Russia.

The night before I was eating steak, slamming vodka, and being presented with decadent deserts, and the next day I was standing in a rat infested ghetto, where people wore second hand clothes, and looked at me with deadly suspicion. A little boy waved at me, dirty and pale. I waved back. Abruptly my driver whisked me into the car and told me the little boy was a gypsy and soon his people would come out of the apartments and take everything I had.
We drove back to Moscow, a city marked with rodeo drive wannabes, overshadowed by hundreds of tall, dank, filthy communist apartment buildings. The women walked to the train stations with their heads down. Men, drunk during the day, weaved on the streets. I guess they sipped their vodka.

Back at the tinker-toy studio, we sat at the long table beating out the third act of the movie, which was impossible because Rasputin had to disagree with everything. Even Boris was getting sick of it and they were starting to argue in Russian while the fertilizer king juggled phone calls. After a particularly heated argument, Rasputin sat down next to me and smirked.

"How would you like to die?" The other producers watched me closely.

"Um, are you asking me this as a theoretical question?"

"No, I want to know, how you would like to die?"

I had no idea how to answer this – I was freaked out – I said, "I guess shot in the head."

"Good. because if I don’t like what you put in outline I want to know how you would like to die."

Then -- the crazy motherfucker bursts into laughter. As does Boris, David and the Shit King as if it’s natural to threaten the life of a writer just because you’re a sociopathic control freak. It was high school.

They all laughed because the other guy laughed. They were not strong, virile men. They were bullies. Pussies -- Drifty sailors with a maniac at the helm.

Later, a friend said, I should have told them I wanted to die by being locked in a room with as much Vicodin as possible.

I had seen Moscow.

I was flying home first class per WGA rules. The seats turned into beds. Once the Xanax kicked in, which seemed like hours into the flight, I finally laid down.

I thought about those grimy-high-rise-communist-era-apartments that crowd Moscow like a plague, the looks on the faces of the women who worked menial jobs, joyless and tired, the faces of the mistresses, desperate to hold on to their rich men -- and the face of Rasputin -- a scavenger who had prospered by picking away at the fiber of his people so he could have more.
About halfway through the flight, in my spacey Xanax and Ambien state of mind, I had a thought -- a thought I’ve never had before when returning from my many travels abroad. A thought that really surprised me. It was this.

I cannot wait to get home. I slowly sat up, and I thought, I want to go home, to my friends, to my life, to my dog and to all the opportunities that lay before me.

I want to go home.

To America.

Slap The Dog

I took my dog to puppy class the other morning. He’s a fast learner. I didn’t get much sleep that night, I was on the internet until four in the morning chatting with some guy who said he worked on Wall Street in New York, was 33 and wanted to trade pics. Pics to those not affiliated with the cyber world are short for pictures. The reason it’s called a “pic” and not picture is because people on the Internet don’t like to spell. It’s too hard for them. It doesn’t matter if they’re educated. These people just don’t think it’s important to spell and punctuate and capitalize. They have no interest in rising to the best our complex and gorgeous language has to offer. They don’t meet language in the eye and embrace it like they would a best friend. No, in cyber world, people don’t care about the language; only care about sharing naked pictures of each other and masturbating.

B-R-B is short for “be right back”. L-O-L is short for “laugh out loud”, the more advanced sometimes prefer the acronym, R-O-F-L which stands for, “rolling on the floor laughing”. Sometimes I close my eyes and visualize the people of this great nation, on their carpets, hardwood, tile, sisal and linoleum, rolling on the floor with laughter. What a wonderful world this would be.

I have my own acronyms, like STFC, “Shut the Fuck up”. Once I told some slime bag that I had a withered arm, was 4’3” with a distended hip and lived in a mental institution. He asked me if I liked to give oral. To that I replied and this is my favorite acronym, EYM, which stands for “Eat Your Mom.”

The guy from New York sent me a naked picture of himself… I’m sorry, “pic”.

He was hung like a donkey.

I did not invite him to send me a naked picture of himself all buffed out, trimmed underarm hair, burly muscles, no fat mass and a 9 ½ penis that was only over shadowed by the size of his balls which hung like breadfruit. I told him his picture looked gay. I told him that gay men would love it. He thought I meant he was gay and took offense to my statement like the fag that he probably was.

I don’t know if this was the guy’s picture. He could have been a woman with transgender issues or prisoner in lock up somewhere, or a greasy old Haitian guy living in Detroit who has dreams of becoming something else, someone else, somewhere else, and lives it all through the miracle of the World Wide Web.

I don’t know. I don’t care. When I get home and it’s late I just want someone to talk to. I sit in my bed, tea and cigarettes next to me, hop on my laptop, and explore the infinite world of bad grammar on the Internet.

My girlfriend and I have been Internet dating. I have met many men this way. One guy was named Jihad. What Jihad failed to mention in our few phone calls prior to the date was that he was married and had a little girl. Jihad, or Holy War as I like to call him was still living in the same apartment with his Salvadorian wife who had found religion and was more turned on by Jesus then Jihad. I also discovered that Jihad’s name was really Kevin, and he changed it while investigating the Nation of Islam. There wasn’t any chemistry between Holy War, and me but he did booty call me at two in the morning the next night. I was pretty clear with him that I was not a walking vagina and would not be ingesting his Holy War sperm in any orifice. And anyway, he couldn’t spell either.

Then there was Bruce. He could spell. Bruce and I had a phone relationship for a very long time. He sounded crazy but very smart, which I like. He had the voice of a DJ and the conspiracy theories of a paranoid Libertarian. His catch phrase was, when we get together we’re going to do boy-girl stuff. I can’t wait to do some boy-girl stuff with you. You’re going to like it when I kiss you neck and we do boy-girl stuff. Bruce said he was 44. He thought the boy-girl stuff was adorable. It bugged the shit out of me. I was willing to check him out regardless. Because there is always that maybe. Maybe he’ll be a good man. Maybe the boy-girl stuff is a playful way to talk about sex and I’m being too critical.

Being single scares couples. Couples people are afraid for you and of you. They don’t understand how you can sleep nights alone. How you can bear it. They don’t understand why you like in some cockeyed way your freedom that you don’t need to be accountable to anyone. That’s the good part of being single. On the other hand, it’s hard, for me at least not to have a partner to tell my day to. It’s the part I hate the most, not having someone to tell my day to. Being coupled is a grass is greener dream. And as well as I know this is as well as I have purchased and A ticket to that dream.

I met Bruce the Internet boy girl stuff guy. He was a freak. Of course the picture he sent me of himself was 20 years younger then the balding, chapped lipped man who cooed at me over tea about doing boy girl stuff. And he wouldn’t stop talking. I didn’t know what he was saying. It was like he was speaking in Yak. No one really walked on the moon – boy girl stuff – Black Ops – boy girl stuff - QVC selling Euro Dollars – boy girl stuff – cattle mutilations – boy-girl stuff – US shadow government – boy-girl stuff. The US government infected its population with AIDS boy-girl – what the hell? Are you kidding me? Is that the world you want to live in Bruce Boy-girl-stuff? Cause I’m having none of that. And I don’t walk the Art Bell road and you wanna know something else? I don’t do boy girl stuff because I was a woman. I am a woman and I want to do man-women stuff. When I told Bruce I didn’t think we had enough in common to hang out he said, but you like me, don’t you? Such a funny and frail question I thought. I was a stranger. What did it matter if I liked him? But it mattered to him. So I said yes. I said yes because he needed to hear yes and I knew it. I understood it, even if it was as delusional as wearing a wedding gown to a soccer match in Argentina.

Why was I meeting these Holy War, Boy-Girl stuff men on the internet? What was wrong with me? Did I do it because they couldn’t see me right away? Because I wouldn’t be judged for my size right away? Is my size an issue for them or for me? I hated how I looked. I hated my war with food and my body and that I binged and my body grew and shrunk and grew again. I hated that I didn’t look like Jennifer Anniston or have her hair. Or have the ability and patience to blow dry my own. I’d rather be constipated for a month than blow out my own hair. Once a really long time ago my friend Julie asked me why I walked around like I was apologizing for myself. I wasn’t like Julie who walked into a room with her beauty strong as a tsunami. I am a big girl. You can’t win when you are a big girl in this city unless you take the city out of the equation and believe you are lovable. Big isn’t lovable. Big is unacceptable. Or so I thought.

I took my dog walking one night. Across the street was this hip-hipster guy with two huge Alsatians. I stopped and stared at their beauty. I was jealous of the dogs. What had I come to? My dog, a Shepard lab mix named Harper had no interest in the super cute guy and his gorgeous dogs. Harper just wanted to smell the grass. Harper just wanted to feel the world around him, happily. Completely content. I balked at this show of unconditional love for himself and his world. And suddenly the cute guy with the beanie and the van duke and the gorgeous dogs looked tawdry to me. Like the dogs were his worth, his diamonds, and in their reflection he sparkled. Harper just sparkled. He likes the dog he is. I had an epiphany then. Harper loved me because I loved him. He loved the grass because it was grass. And he was happy being a mixed breed. I’ve read books, I’ve been in group therapy, regular therapy, ad naseum, but never have I seen so clearly what it is like to just be. Not care about the Jennifer Anniston dogs across the street. Just be.

Something in me opened. Shifted. I am good and sexy and viable. At least my dog thinks so.

I met someone not too long after that. He can’t spell but that’s okay because he’s from another country. I met someone who looks me in the eyes, is proud of me, patient, thinks my butt is sexy and calls me a tiger. He is someone I can tell my day to.

And I feel different. I get afraid that he will go away. But he stays. He is the gentle in the night. He is my internet substitution of all the pics, lols, rolfl’s and brbs. I changed. I let him in. I let a fine man in. The Internet chapter is closed. And when I walk my dog, I thank him. He is who he is and does not reach for chaos to make him feel calm. I’m a slow learner.