When Dogs Go a Ramblin'

Date: Aug 31, 2010
When Dogs Go a Ramblin'
Current mood: argumentative
Category: Blogging

A facsimile of Mandy, the Ugliest Dog Alive

 

As I have stated many times in the past, I am not a big animal-person. I enjoy petting a loyal hound as much as the next guy, or watching the fish make their endless way around the 10-gallon aquarium, but the shine pretty much wore off the nickel as far as owning and maintaining pets around the time I discovered girls and dating and music and baseball and other things that would make much better use of my time than picking up scat that I had not personally put somewhere it wasn’t supposed to be.

Regardless, I am the owner of the ugliest dog alive, a sprightly mix of Chihuahua and poodle that came out with a wiry, pig-hair that covers most of its body. It is small, it is sneaky and it doesn’t respond to commands unless there is some sort of treat in return. I offered to take the animal from my sister, who had raised the dog from the time it was a pup and in the interim had picked up a Rottweiler and a Doberman, which the little dog – we’ll call her Mandy ( I did not name the animal, as I have stated before, had it been left up to me, I would have named it “Hagrid”) – grew weary of in short order. Mandy began pissing where she shouldn’t and turned into a crabby curmudgeon around the house. I felt a kinship with the dog, given that I am of similar temperament, and since I had taken over stewardship of my two daughters, thought it would be a welcomed addition to our household and I would not be responsible for its upkeep – that’s what the daughters were for.

That being said, when my daughters mended fences with their mother three years later and went back to live with her, I was left with the ugly little dog. Apparently, Mom had two large dogs which would eat Mandy in short order given the opportunity. So, I was stuck with the beast and we have struck a comfortable relationship. I call her, she doesn’t come. I feed her, she goes outside to do her business. Everyone is happy.

So it was surprising last week when I let her out to do her morning business and she disappeared. I whistled to no response – not surprising, and I drove around the neighborhood for a half-hour before I had to leave for work and the dog was nowhere to be found. I assumed that she had been hit by a car or devoured by coyotes and went on my way to work. Two days later, on a random drive around my neighborhood – I was not looking for the dog, for your information – I often drive around my neighborhood in 100+ degree heat with no air conditioning. I find it builds character.

There she was. Wandering the street in the sun, tongue out, a defiant spring in her step. I pulled over to the side of the street and opened my door. “Mandy! Get in the car, dammit!” She trotted over and hopped in under my legs and up onto the passenger seat as if we had just come from the park. “And where in the hell have you been?" I shouted. She held up her paw. “I will not talk to you about this,” she answered, giving me every bit as much attitude as any teenager – she must have been watching.

“I have a right to know,” I yelled. She looked out the window, sniffing the air as I drove. “I am too tired for this conversation,” she said. And that’s the last she has spoken. She refuses to talk to me now – she will howl now and again if there are treats involved, but that’s it. That night, she threw up some God-awful mess and shat on my kitchen floor, but then living on the streets as a canine hobo will do that to a dog’s constitution, I suppose. I had to clean it up the next morning. Apparently, she wasn’t going to help out around the house, either. I nearly gagged while cleaning up the mess. She looked at me with what appeared to be a grin on her mangy face as I barely contained my own stomach, but I withered her with a stare.

Things have returned mostly to normal. I call her, she doesn’t come. She saves her poop and whatever else for the out of doors and we keep to ourselves. The dog is too prideful to admit she was wrong in running away and I will not take total responsibilities for her actions. But I am there if she wants to apologize and she is welcome to help out around the house once in awhile. Until then, we agree to disagree.


For Jerry's video blog, go to: http://www.youtube.com/user/TooFarJerry#p/f

Man Mauled and Killed By Bear - A Brief Lesson in Common Sense

Thursday, August 26, 2010
Man Mauled and Killed By Bear - A Brief Lesson in Common Sense
Current mood: Bewildered
Category: Blogging

As I was skimming the news last week, I saw an article about a man in Ohio who had been mauled and killed by a black bear. Not surprising – bears have been killing folks for years. The surprising thing was that the bear was owned along with eight other bears in an apparent menagerie outside Cleveland that also included some tigers and a lion and about twenty wolves. The man who was killed had been employed by the guy who owned all the creatures, as much as any man can own a wild, carnivorous animal that can maul you, bite you or tear you to death and have you for dinner at its whim. Perhaps a better phrase would be “caged all the creatures”. And as we have seen time and time again, caged animals really don’t enjoy it all that much. That’s why monkeys fling their excrement and various circus and zoo personnel have been dispatched in bloody fashion over the years when their bloodthirsty charges have finally had enough.

The man who was killed – we’ll let him remain nameless out of respect for the deceased – had chosen to work with the menagerie, which consisted of mostly animals who avoid mankind overall and generally kill them in the wild when humans are forced upon them. Heck, even the Grizzly Man, who lived among the creatures in the wild for extended periods of time ended up becoming simply a part of the food chain when vittles became scarce. Not a big animal fan anyhow, I do believe that given the choice, I would rather assist in the management of a more peaceful menagerie – perhaps some cows, or sheep. Not birds – I hate those things. Sloths would be good – I could always outrun a sloth. The only way a sloth could be dangerous would be if it fell directly on you from the tree branch from which it hung. And those Goddamn claws would have your breakfast on the ground for you if one sliced you in a freak sloth-fall. So keep the sloths, too. So, let’s recap – cows or sheep –that’s about it. No birds, or reptiles. Or wolverines at any cost. I would not tend to any animal that would have the means to throw me into the air, either. That includes elephants, rhinos, angry bulls and the larger primates. And nothing that could tear me apart – no big cats, hyenas, schools of piranha, or Javelina.

So if it came down to basic animal management, I would feel comfortable with herding cattle or sheep, if I didn’t have to mount a horse to do so. Once mounted on the horse, it becomes a beast that can throw me into the air, which would immediately disqualify it from the proceedings. That limits me to sheepherding. Or feeding non-aggressive fish that live in an aquarium, or a small pond. I don’t trust water much when push comes to shove and don’t even eat fish, so I may just be limited to herding the docile sheep. I don’t want any of those fucking rams with the curly horns, either. Keep them up on the dangerous slopes if they’re so sure-footed, not near my herd – we are a peaceful group and prefer to keep it that way.

But the fact of the matter is that I would prefer to work in a potato chip factory, or someplace where they bake cookies, as long as I could work around those savory aromas, yet still be comfortably air-conditioned. Animals are unpredictable and working with them little more than yelling and stomping, I imagine. On the other hand, the delicate cooking of the potato chip or the baking of a perfect cookie, generously festooned with sizeable chocolate chips would be almost an art. I could work with my hands, which have proven to be quite dexterous over the years, if it didn’t involve too much activity that would bruise or blister them. Assembling scale models of buildings, boats or airplanes is a possibility.

But my preferences of career choice are not why I am writing.

I am writing to ponder why a man would own such a dangerous menagerie of beasts in the first place. It would seem that a person would always have to be on alert when strolling the property, simply waiting for the day when the gate is left open and he is attacked by twenty angry, vicious, hungry wolves. And why would another simpleton hire on to feed and wrestle with them, as the article stated. I don’t mean to disparage the dead, but Jesus Christ, man – what were you thinking??? Buy some peacocks, or some llamas. I would not venture near either on a dare, but compared to wrestling with bear or chucking raw meat to a lion, caring for a llama would be a walk in the park.

All I’m saying is – by all means, follow your dream - do something you love. That’s what makes life worthwhile. Unless it involves wild, bloodthirsty beasts that will eventually eat you alive when you let your guard down. And if you must tend them, do it sober, please.

Jerry Ford – here with another public service announcement.

For Jerry's video blog, go to: http://www.youtube.com/user/TooFarJerry#p/f

My BEST Job Ever

Thursday, August 26, 2010
My BEST Job Ever
Current mood: Nostalgic
Category: Blogging

The best job I ever had came after a series of disappointing endeavors, up to and including the unfortunate plumbing episode. Once I had sworn never to work in the dastardly world of human waste, it didn’t take long for me to stumble into the equally filthy world of retail. Long known as a money-grubbing, profit-only enterprise, selling goods of popular need to the public at a profitable margin, retailers have long been considered the bottom-feeders of the business world. I tend to disagree.

The best job I ever had came to me through my friend Raoul, who worked at a hardware store called Handyman – nowadays, it would be called a “home improvement center”, selling a variety of hardware, lumber, electrical, plumbing and garden center items. Handyman was the precursor to the Home Depots and Lowes that are now sprinkled in every neighborhood in the country. Not quite as big as these warehouses, Handyman was larger than your Ace locations – in fact, one of the stores I worked at on 7th street and Camelback was home for a ToysRUs for many years.

I worked with Raoul in the building materials department, selling 2x4s and lengths of carpet from rolls, measured with a hand-held tape measure and cut with a box cutter using an eight-foot 2x4 as a straight edge. We sold sand and mortar and floor tiles and chicken wire – I once sold a section of chicken wire to a polite elderly gentleman. Being a film buff, I recognized him as Buster Crabbe, the former Olympic swimmer who had played Flash Gordon and Tarzan in the 1940s. He didn’t really resemble the Buster Crabbe of the 40s, but I had seen him on Merv Griffin or something. “You look just like Buster Crabbe,” I said. The man’s face lit up like a Christmas tree – for a moment I thought he was having a stroke. Being only nineteen years old, I was not trained for that eventuality. “I am Buster Crabbe,” he said, shaking my hand and taking the chicken wire I had cut. It was my first run-in with celebrity. I told my co-workers and no one knew who Buster Crabbe was. Raoul said he did, but I thought then and still figure that he was bluffing.

We once made a blow-gun out of a six-foot length of aluminum tubing, using a finishing nail, wound with a cone of masking tape as the dart. We practiced shooting at the rolls of carpet we stored on-end, which were wrapped in brown paper and looked like massive upright cigars. Eventually, I shot Raoul in the thigh and we were called to the office and lectured by Sam Cassius, our manager, who stood about five-foot three and was often under the knife for some heart ailment or another. We wore nametags that were issued with the Dyna-mo tape labels that were fashioned in the gun with the rotary wheel that lined up the letters and numbers. You pulled the trigger and the pressure of the mechanism stamped the tape with the letters. I often got ahold of the label-gun and made my own name tags: Ernest T. Bass, Seymore Butts, Buckwheat, Jonny Quest, Gepetto and Officer Friendly made brief appearances, but whenever I was spotted by management wearing the tags with the fake names, I was forced to retire the tape and replace it with my own proper name, which varied from J. Ford to Jerald L. Ford to JLFord, esq., depending on my mood. The fake name tags ended up stuck to the inside of the door to my locker.

The cashiers that were hired by Handyman were even younger than me and no smarter. I once told the cashier up front that Mrs. Hunt was looking for her husband and would she please page him to the garden shop. His name was Mike. “MIKE HUNT TO THE GARDEN SHOP, PLEASE – MIKE HUNT…” There was a couple of moments pause as laughter trickled from various aisles of the store, then another announcement: “JERRY TO THE OFFICE, PLEASE – JERRY TO THE OFFICE…”

Around 1983 or 1984, our band The Hired Help was playing at a little club across the street called “Lonnegan’s”. We knew all the staff there and it had become our regular hangout, even on the nights we weren’t playing. My birthday came one July and Mike Taggart, keyboard player, high-school buddy and rogue-at-large showed up at Handyman to take me to lunch to celebrate. Never big on celebrating my birthday, I reluctantly accompanied Taggart to Lonnegan’s and consumed lunch, which consisted of three bottled beers and several Kamikazees. I went back to work and my manager took one look at my flushed, smiling face – me with my vest buttoned all crooked – and grabbed me by the arm and dragged me up the stairs to the office. “You’re drunk,” she said. Her name was Jamie and she stood maybe five-foot two and weighed 80 pounds if you counted her attitude. “Nuh-uh,” I replied, stumbling up the stairs as she shoveled me along. She took me into the big office – Sam’s office and closed the door. I figured my hardware career had come to a drunken, screeching halt. “I’m going to put in some videos and I want you to sit in here until it’s time for you to go home.” I nodded dumbly, wondering just when that would be – I rarely wore a watch. She put in a video and I stretched out on the little sofa and went to sleep. My job had been saved.

I worked at Handyman for six or seven years and had many adventures, none of which featured deadly swordplay, spies, zombies or boll-weevils. I was bit behind the ear by a black widow once, which caused blinding headaches, double-vision and nausea, but that was the closest I ever came to real danger – even though I was permitted to work the table saw, cutting lumber and carried a really sharp box-cutter at all times. It wasn’t Hollywood, I wasn’t auditioning exotic strippers and I wasn't making a living writing - which to this day I have yet to figure out how to do. I didn’t make much money and was constantly in trouble with the powers that be, but these things considered, they were a lenient lot and laughed with me even as they put on their “boss” faces. I think they appreciated my moxie. I made lots of friends – my buddies in the warehouse and “Woody” Page. For these reasons and many others, I have to rank Handyman as the best job I ever had.

My Worst Job Ever

Wednesday, August 25, 2010
My worst job ever...
Current mood: amused
Category: Blogging

The worst job I ever had, I worked for one day. Didn’t even wait to get paid. I had begun my equitable employment when I was nine years old, working for my father. Every summer, I scraped windows, cleaned paintbrushes, hauled roofing shingles up ladders – sometimes more than one story, which is something akin to jumping off a ledge at the Grand Canyon for someone with my fear of heights – mixed mud, hauled hod, stacked brick, cleaned up, set up, tore up and filled up every manner of construction job imaginable. I did this for seven years, until I was old enough to get another job – any job, anywhere. I made two dollars per hour every year, which was one reason I wanted to find another job as soon as possible. I made a hundred dollars a week most weeks, which was the other reason I wanted to seek other employment as soon as humanly possible. This meant that the old man had worked me for fifty hours per week, which I would not dream of working today, unless the work involved processing high-grade cocaine or auditioning world-class strippers. The fact that my father bought my morning chocolate milk and mini-powdered donuts and hot lunch did not dissuade me from searching out another means of earning.

This was not the worst job I ever had, however. I learned a lot by working for my father – I learned a bunch of salty language and more importantly, I cultivated a strong work ethic, which has rightfully diminished over the years, but still managed to stain my character. The first job I found outside the family was being a busboy at the Scottsdale Hilton, located at Lincoln and Scottsdale Roads, the highlight of which was assisting the regular waitress to Forrest Tucker, to whom she would serve vodka on the rocks in a water glass, lest his wife and handlers find out he was imbibing. Apparently, he was not supposed to be boozing. To me, he was a legend for his work in “F-Troop” and I found it acceptable to serve up his hooch in a plastic cup and listen to his tales of the Golden Age of Hollywood as his speech began to slur in direct proportion to the vicious squeezins he was surreptitiously consuming. Looking back, I was amazed that he was never found out – at least not that I knew. Then again, who knew what happened in the penthouse of the Hilton in the Desert once they had left the dining hall. The only other memorable incident that summer was that Elvis died. It was odd to me to lose an icon – I hadn’t had the experience up to that point, but it would not be the last time, as it turned out. Still, I always connect the death of the King to the Scottsdale Hilton, right or wrong. Oh – and a lady answered the door in her lingerie when I went to deliver room service one time and asked me to come in and set the tray on the bed. I stammered, handed her the tray and bolted down the hall, not waiting for a tip, not looking back. I was seventeen. I have relived this memory countless times in the past, duly kicking myself in the figurative ass, wondering just what might have happened had I set the tray on the bed. Had this delivery been made properly, I have concluded, it would warrant more space in this writing. What a puss.

The worst job I ever had came shortly thereafter. I was recommended by my father – no doubt because it was known I would work cheap – and hired by one of Dad’s drinking buddies to work as a plumber’s apprentice. I was not adverse to hard work and the pay was decent – especially compared to that of the elder Ford character – so I drove to the office and hopped into a plumber’s van with Dad’s buddy Arnie, who was going to show me the ropes. I was put to the task of digging a trench in a yard of a home in the desert and I set about digging and wondering when we would break for lunch – all at the same time – even then a classic multi-tasker. I dug down to the PVC pipe that had been laid at some point in history, from which the problem apparently generated. At this point, Arnie donned his work gloves and knelt over the ditch I had dug and brought forth a coping saw, with which he began to cut through the pipe. I watched with eager anticipation, ever the learner, still wondering when lunch would come and whether I had packed enough sandwiches. It was hot and I was hungry – digging trenches had proven to be hard work. Arnie had cut through the pipe and separated the pieces and begun to assemble the replacement workings when there was a sudden rumbling. Arnie backed away from the trench and motioned for me to retreat. “Get back!” he warned, and I did. Water began to flow out of the pipe, followed by a couple of good-sized, praise-worthy turds and a lump of toilet paper for my viewing enjoyment. I nearly vomited and quit right on the spot, never being the possessor of a strong stomach – a curse of my hill lineage. This is no knock against those who toil in feces - more power to you. But given my delicate constitution and unrivaled sensibilities, I could tell immediately that this was not the career path I would be pursuing for the long-term. Nor the short-term. I don’t even remember how I made it back to the office, or my car. I never sought out Arnie again for payment, or further employment. In fact, when I saw him on the street, I usually crossed to the other side and sprinted for cover. I spoke poorly of him whenever given the opportunity – he and his family, with whom I had no acquaintance. That was my worst job ever.

Tomorrow – my BEST job ever.