A Small Tragedy

Last Thursday night I noticed a golf-ball size lump on my dog Bill's "wrist". You might wonder how I could NOT see it, but because of the way the joint makes its own little lump plus all the fur, it didn't show up that much. When I took him to the vet Saturday she initially thought it was a cyst. But it didn't aspirate like a cyst. That meant the signs were not good, and it was very possibly cancerous. We set up Bill’s surgery for this morning, Wednesday, to have what became known as “the mass” removed.

Bill and Murray both are pushing 12 years old, and I’m fully cognizant that as George Carlin observes, “You're not getting a pet, you're getting a small tragedy in the making. You know why? Because all pets die badly.” It does start hitting home when the dogs start having similar problems to those of aging parents: the arthritis, the cataracts, the groaning when they arise from a sitting position.... Although so far, The Boys show no interest in going to the senior center to play rummy.

Even with Carlin and the realities of doggy geriatrics in mind, having the potential of the “C” word looming over a beloved pet is a kick in the gut. Bill’s life—or what I knew of it—kept filling my thoughts. How when he runs to me he bounces as though he’s spring-loaded, how he looks at me so soulfully as though he can’t believe his luck in being with such a creature, how he seems oblivious to even the remote possibility that I might have flaws… The minute Dr C said “This concerns me” with that ominous tone, every blessed Bill story and moment and tic kept going through my head like bad sitcom reruns.

I have Bill because of Murray. Murray was an inmate at the Sacramento County pound (er... animal control shelter) in 1993, and when asked whether he wanted to face the executioner's gas or come live at my house... it wasn't an easy decision, but he finally agreed to the latter. He was about 8 months old, but still almost large enough to qualify as livestock. When people would ask, "What kind of dog is he?" the closest breed description I could come up with was a cross between an Italian Spinone and German Wirehair Pointer. So I would just say, "He's a Murray dog."In October 2001, a lady who, before her rates went through the roof, used to keep Murray at her kennel when I was out of town, left a message saying, "Sorry to bother you, and this might seem weird. But I watch the noon news every day, and they always feature an SPCA animal. Today their feature was a dog who looks like Murray and his name is Murray. Is your dog okay?" I called back, thanking her profusely for thinking of me, but assuring her that Murray was just fine. I pondered this oddity momentarily because Murray is not a generic-looking dog, nor is Murray a particularly generic dog name. But then dismissed it and went on with life.

A little over a week later, a friend emailed me with a link saying, "You've got to look at the SPCA web site. There's a dog that looks like Murray, and his name is Murray." Oh my. Is there a pattern here? Is the Delphi Oracle speaking to me? Then I made the mistake of looking. Not identical, but there was an amazing resemblance, and they were even the same age. I spent two hours arguing with myself about not wanting an additional dog. The trials, the tribulations, the expense. I also contemplated that statistically Murray's cosmic brother, going on 9 years old, had only slightly better than a snowball's chance in hell of getting adopted. I spent my lunch hours the next two days at the SPCA and by the weekend I had added another Murray dog to the homestead. It got a little confusing, so finally had to rename Murray 2, and when I polled for suggestions, got two votes for Bill. So now it's Bill and Murray.

I got Bill from the SPCA on October 20. When I looked at Murray's '93 pound papers, I had gotten him October 21. [Fade with Twilight Zone theme song.... ] I've only had Bill three years, and it hasn’t been nearly long enough.This morning I got up early so I could take The Boys for a final walk before Bill’s surgery—not knowing when he would be able to exercise again. Dawn was just starting to unbutton the night sky, and it was the perfect crisp autumn morning. This was the walk where I experienced first-hand that living-in-the-moment stuff I’m always hearing I should be doing. I love Bill and Murray, but I get exasperated as they poke along with their plodding, their sniffing, and their whizzing on anything upright. This morning I gloried in every sniff. Each whiz was cause for declaring it a remarkable day. And even wrapping a Woodman’s produce bag around steaming shit seemed like a privilege in the mere doing. These blessed creatures.When we were on the return, the mist hanging over the park didn’t fully hide an abandoned soccer ball. Usually I’m a law-abiding citizen, if not downright anal where leash laws are concerned. But a Last Walk, a soccer ball, and a wide-open parkground overcame any thoughts of citizenship.

The leashes came off. I ran for the soccer ball, and Bill, ever the one to think all my ideas brilliant, joined the game. Murray the Incorrigible did his own little dance, reveling in his freedom. Bill caught on to dribbling almost immediately, although he also experimented with putting his chest to the ball and rolling on it. Murray—the same Murray that gets slower and more doddering with each run and pants as though he’s expiring and hangs back with anything faster than a walk—that Murray bolted to the opposite side of the park. Damned sandbagger. I abandoned the soccer ball to capture Murray before he disappeared—and Bill, sure that I had some other brilliant plan, joined in the chase. We finally caught M as he stopped to hydrate a tree. Leashes were re-attached.

A sweet and uneventful finish ensued. Then the trip to the vet, where I planted a kiss on top of Bill’s furry pate and assured him that lots of people were praying for him. True to form, I blubbered as I walked back to the car unleashed.

The City of New Orleans

Good morning, America, how are you?
Don't you know me I'm your native son.
I'm the train they call The City of New Orleans,
I'll be gone five hundred miles when the day is done.
-Steve Goodman

This morning NPR was filled with stories of The Big Easy emptying of residents as they fled for higher ground. For those who have not yet escaped the approaching Hurricane Ivan, the exits are closing, and they’d better be stocking up on plywood, liquor, and water wings. Even Amtrak’s celebrated City of New Orleans hauled its last load of human cargo out this morning and will only be going as far south as Jackson, Mississippi for the remainder of the week.

I find it strange to contemplate running away from New Orleans. I have countless wonderful memories made in different parts of the globe throughout my lifetime, but a disproportionate number originated in The Crescent City. It’s a place you go to—and typically depart from only because your vacation or money runs out.I was first exposed to the magic of New Orleans when I was in college, and drove there with a boyfriend. A hick chick from the Texas and Oklahoma Panhandles, I was a bit lost in its vast mystery; but it was like being lost in an enchanted forest. Intimidating perhaps, but still thrilling to discover history, new adventure, and even voodoo darkness around every corner.

Years down the road after I had barely left the ranks of couch spuds, I ran my first 10K there. Yeah, that’s right. Me. I ran it. Incredible! I’d spent most of my life believing only the superhuman could run a whole mile, and I had just run more than six of them in that soft, enveloping Louisiana humidity. It was a life-changing event that broke through all kinds of self-limitations and made me realize that I was capable of so much more than I had ever believed. The Crescent City Classic 10K was a turning point that made me so love the whole idea of running, I became a committed runner for life. (And yes, at times, a runner that should be committed.)

So many fantastic New Orleans experiences. I’ve been to one Mardi Gras. I’ve run two Crescent City Classics. Watched Final Four playoffs there. Delighted in Saints football at the Super Dome where the fans love and support their team regardless of the standings because it's one more chance for a party. Eaten too many sugary beignets to count. Happily awakened with hot cups of chicory coffee after long nights—and early mornings—of dancing and shameless imbibing. Learned to love the colors green, gold, and purple together and buses that have "Cemetery" on their destination marquee. Discovered that my distaste for large milling crowds completely dissipates when it’s the large milling crowd at JazzFest.

There was the time at the Carousel Revolving Bar at the Monteleone Hotel when I'd had a few and decided to interview people about their "revolutionary" experience. One precious blonde chicky drunkenly breathed, "Ah fahnd that if Ah keep one foot on the grow-w-nd, Ah don't fall off."

Ironically I can identify in some ways with the hurricane refugees. There was the one time I departed New Orleans to leave a marriage that had already sustained irreparable damage and for which the climate would never be anything but stormy. New Orleans has never again been my home although I’ve returned to that beloved city many times since. I hope those folks leaving today, contrary to all Thomas Wolfe predictions, can go home. Soon. To clear weather and the inimitable magic of The Big Easy.

The Hellfire Club - R.I.P.

For a few minutes every Wednesday when the e-version of The Village Voice hits my inbox, I get to be a New Yorker again. The Voice serves as my personal time machine that returns the vibrations of the subway platform to the soles of my feet, wafts the stench of urine from concrete corners, and walks me to work through the World Trade Center concourse once more.

If The Voice takes me back in time, Michael Musto’s column transports me to the best of New York’s depravity—a weekly if momentary departure from my sadly wholesome Wisconsin experience. Musto is a flamingly gay and wickedly funny writer who delights in reviewing events and people who don’t show up under the Family Values banner. He even returns emails. God love’im.

In today’s column, he briefly mentioned “the late, lamented Hellfire Club”. Whaddya mean?! Late? Lamented? OMG! One more piece of my NY history gone with the WTC?

My relationship with—or education from—the Hellfire Club was brief but memorable. I had recently moved to NY, and was so excited to be in Gotham, working for a major Wall Street firm no less. I was dating a commodities trader whose tastes turned out to be… er… shall we say “eclectic”. I have always been a bit on the straight and narrow—more through happenstance and accidents of birth than through conscious choice. So when we entered this dark, cave-like place called Hellfire Club, and I started observing a world that you just don’t find in the Texas Panhandle, it was a total E-Ticket ride.

We sashayed through the club and watched the various convolutions for the furtherance of my sexual education and edification. There was the naked lady doing contortionist acts worthy of Cirque du Soleil. And the guy chained to a cross using one hand to poke himself with nails and the other to execute onanistic sexual acts. There were many more, but those were two of the more memorable. Around each of the “performers” were throngs of voyeurs. I suppose that would include us, although we didn’t seem to get quite as much dynamic pleasure from the act of observing as others apparently were. With our prosaic attire—Jack in his suit and I in a dress that was undoubtedly short but not provocative by Hellfire standards—we might as well have worn a sign saying, “Nope. Don’t come here often.”

The best word to describe my Hellfire foray is "hilarious". I know, I know, that is not the word normally accompanying Homer-esque sexual experiences. But everything there seemed contrived and like most of the habitués were working so hard for what can usually be achieved with a little tweak or buzz or nibble. The funniest aspects were the odd juxtapositions we encountered after making the circuit of this sexual Disneyland and going to the bar. A tough-looking woman in full dominatrix attire—black leather corset, exposed breasts, and Goth make-up—approached to take our order. As she opened her mouth, a voice better suited to Minnie Mouse than Xena Warrior Bitch inquired if we wanted juice or soda. Despite every manner of sexual perversity going on around us, juice and soda were apparently the hedonistic drinks of choice. What, no Kool Aid?

Once our refreshing beverages were served, Jack and I indulged in a bit of making out. Hardly that. No groping, no gasping. Just a bit of embrace and innocent kissing. Suddenly we noticed that we were surrounded by a phalanx of folks formerly engrossed by Cross Dude, Contortionist Chick, and... well, you know... what you'd think were far more interesting venues than a fully-clothed, white hetero couple sitting there kissing. But the naked S&M stuff had apparently become old hat compared to this novelty of a couple in boring middle-American apparel doing the unthinkable, if not unimaginable—kissing. Amazing how any pendulum will seek its extremes, but I guess in a sex bar, G-rated becomes the kink.

And now I'm reading that the Hellfire Club is gone. I emailed Michael to get the dirt. Where is it? What tragedy befell it? His response:“Like all the other sex and/or s/m clubs, it was turned into a trendy, overpriced restaurant!”So New York.
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Joke from this morning’s “La Dolce Musto” column: "Why does Kobe Bryant always cry after sex? It's the Mace."