The dog ate my homework

Today I met quite a pooch. I'd driven into a general aviation airport's restricted area and stepped out of my vehicle without looking both ways. The dog didn't even let out a bark before it charged. It surprised me with its ability to close on my knocking knees so quickly. A blinding, black blur, the dog covered thirty yard before I could think.

I don't know what I expected to happen, but I didn't expect the dog to be named Misty. Nor did I expect it to hit the ground in a skydiver's roll and beg to have her belly rubbed. I guess that's a toy poodle for ya.

So, that's my point. My life has becoming exceedingly uninteresting to me. At a time when I have confronted some of life's most honest but horrible eccentricities, I find the daily life about which I used to write a little mundane. In 60 days I have faced down some of the biggest challenges of my life. I have conquered fear, pain, and addictive manipulation. I have come to accept life is a game of choices.

Most of that stuff I'm not yet ready to write down. Some of it is still too fresh, some of it doesn't really belong to me. The rest is about as boring as not being attacked by a toy poodle named Misty.

Around me, the state of South Carolina faces its demons. One of its elder statesmen (okay, oldest and deadest statesmen) turned out to be less a racist and more a hypocrite. Around me, my friends face their demons. I'm still trying to decide if I sharpened their demon's pitchfork.

And me, I'm rubbing toy poodles on the belly. (Did I mention the dog had painted toenails--fire engine red to match her Christmas collar).

So, I lie in bed coming up with harebrained money making schemes (imagine...Personalized bobble-head dolls for the mass market...that's gold) to avoid facing the the real life questions: Stay or go, raise or fold, drink or be drunk.

Of course, all of the above makes me no different than anybody I know. It makes my life no worse or difficult with which to deal. However, it does really affect this blog.

In days of old, when life were boring, I found some of my daily stuff extraordinary.



Take that for instance. Besides offering a more-than-adequate profile of my schnozz, that picture shows me doing something few people get to do.

The man in the middle (aka the one without the badge or giant nose) surrendered to the cops less than 24 hours before this picture was taken. No one other than a couple cops yet spoken to him about why he thought it was fine idea to kill two law enforcement officers, then shoot at another 50 for about 14 hours.

So, this is Mr. Bixby getting pulled out of a cop car on his way to his first public appearance. Thanks to knowing the right guy, I happened to be in the right place to be the first guy to ask Mr. Bixby what made his trigger finger itchy.

A few years ago this kind of experience got me off. I remember one time when a guy who had raped and killed a 17 year-old girl took a swing at me, then offered to put a TV camera in a very uncomfortable place. One of my first posts was about a bank robber insulting my mother. Call me a madman, but I thought I could live forever as the guy who tried to get beaten up by killers and thieves.

Mr. Bixby (you wouldn't like him when he's angry) didn't care much about me. He told me he was not guilty and that the Governor or Attorney General could've stopped the killing. By the time I'd asked him how two elected officials could've stopped him from killing two cops, Bixby gone inside to continue being a wack-job.

I only wrote about it tonight because I found the picture online.

The moral of this poorly thought-out tale is this: I'm sorry for feeding you dime-store fiction. I just don't find my life all that interesting right now.

Of course, perhaps the queen protest too much. Maybe I'm just looking for a little emotional hand job.

If that's the case...well, so be it.