The June gloom is over, the valley is boiling, the land even before you get to the mountains is melllllllting and I am losing my will to do anything but websurf dog sites. I can’t concentrate on anything important, I’ve drunk two virgin strawberry margaritas just to bring my body temperature down. My plants are dry every other minute, the air conditioner is wheezing, my fish are uncomfortable, and I am ready to stick my own tongue out and pant, whilst frying under my laptop and wondering about the capabilities of dry ice, and should I order some for a shelf device that I would put just under it on my lap…. oh but wait there’s fog…. hmmmm…. that would certainly look cool…. Would I have to have big hair all of a sudden? Get a wall of Marshalls? um……. I think I’ve just lost a few IQ points trickling down there….
I once had a mentor friend who had suggested that IQ level dropped significantly, the further down the Coast of California you went. Having looked at the roster of idiots getting themselves famous these days (not to mention showing their crotches and whatnot), I can’t agree more. The weather is part of the syndrome. Lovely sunny days just make a great petrie dish for the sugary fermenting scum to rise to the top. When you have a very hot sunny existence, who wants to do anything but veg out at the beach, or get one’s nails done, or perhaps your pet poodle’s, or roam aimlessly through a sealed mall, or hide in a designer martini bar. No one talks about anything very intellectual, it’s just too much effort. Just keep it vacuous and light, and distract yourself from anything that might remind you of difficulty, reality, strife, effort, thinking outside any boxes, integrity, or digging your way out of something you signed off on. Just keep your bikini waxed bod perfect, and life is one big beige beach.
Which is why (I pause for a sip of ice water) I want to get a northern dog, a Chow Chow. Noble, Asian dog of the northern Tatar tribes, strong, alert, hunting, retrieving, sled-hauling, yak-herding, Mongol-guarding, their roots stemming from the days when Genghis Khan went marauding and the Emperor’s tent needed alarm warnings. Their bark is short and to the point, their glam fur coat is better than a lion’s, and besides, I read about them and they actually describe them as “Expression essentially dignified, lordly, scowling, discerning, sober, and snobbish-one of independence.” My kinda dog. “Usually well-mannered”, they continue, “but can be willful and protective. Bossy, serious and self-willed to the point of obstinacy.” Yup. “Stocky, slightly stilted gait.” Check. I have to have one. But when and how? HOW in this land of beating sun, greedy landlords, and shrinking apartment space? How in this place with more chihuahuas than grass?
The answer is go north, I’m sure of it. I can’t stay in this place forever. My dog, whenever she arrives in my life, just won’t like it. The identity of my future dog is telling me what I must do. At least as far north as say, San Francisco. Where there’s lots of nice fog. Yeahhhhhhhh. Dry ice unnecessary.
::sigh:: Some day.
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