hat the fuck
am I doing with my life?
Frank Marquardt was the only one who could answer with a straight face:
I am bringing dogs their doo.
Giving them their due. That is. I mean. Did you ever, did you ever, I
Just stop for a moment and think about the dogs, the sodg, yes the
gods, and their lives. Their lives which aint so bad from your
after nine to five barcolounger point of view. Well fed. Groomed. Able
uncommon places. And derive pleasure from that. Smelling. And
you admit a certain jealously. But their suffrage, even when not in
bestills the point in even their alleged freedom from the cares
of your humdrum everyday nine to five or more so-called existence
dont you mean bestirs?
Shut the fuck up, why dont you? God damm double m damm be still
my beating heart the fact is there pointing straight like an arrow through
forehead that those dogs are there to bring you comfort, to make you
realize your own domesticity, to bring you reassurance mixed with a
kind of bittersweet
tender selfdoubtandconfidence about your own life. Yes, you say that
dog there begging for another bone is pathetic and yet I I I
have the power to deliver that salivadripping creature yet another
I I I can brush this wirecomb through that knotted hair
I I I can scratch behind its hair even as my income falls,
I can find the funds for the appropriate shampoos to kill the fleas
reside there. Here, this dog, which I scratch, this dog, which I own,
this dog, which reminds me each and every day of hypercontextualized
by virtue of comparison with its own which, let's face it my friends
and brother,s is ultimately sped to seven times the speed of mine, this
correlative for my pain, for my angst, for my urge to mope and roll belly
about the floor, to stare off into the distant sunset yes to hump the
leg of certain visitors in skirts slit just so to lapto lap
with turgid tongue and to terrorize certain milkmen and paperboys to
that urge yes to embarrass you in the presence of your neighbors to howl
to howl to howl at the
moon, yes this canine beast relieves you of those urges pressing toofullbladderlike
against your own psyche and his tongue hangs low. And you feed him. And
he smiles if a dog can smile but you feel it deep withindont
call me a sentimentalist but certain things are trueyour pitterpattering
fucking point, Frank? Were dying here.
Look at your dog, thats all Im saying, and appreciate the riderless
bicycles. The objects, antimate and in, which color your lives.
isnt it that that color your lives?
dont have a dog none of us, Frank.
Exactly: not a dog none of us and though in moments of severe dereliction
we wish we were
godammit Frank I wish you could be here, were in a bar in
Urbana the Jolly Roger, its shaped like a ship, somebody had a
dream a misguided one I think, were aft
Sentient thinking beings and the realization that those dreams that you
had were silly one three three and a half four decades into it theyre
like an open sore dripping and you want to scratch it, but
at the beach there were clouds and people wearing orange jackets
hired by the City of Chicago to inform bathers whod just gotten
their feet wet in that surf that they were dipping their epidermal
in water that contained more raw sewage than was safe to swim in, emergency
storm sewer dump in response to the flooding and we laid back
at the sky. You forget how fast clouds actually move until you take a
couple of hours to really stare up at them shifting shape that incredible
realization that you are in fact on this globe a speck under layers that
My point my good men my dogs my gods is that even that little pleasure
that observation is a gift given us by the dogs
you like your job dont you Frank.
hey they scored. The uh, Edmonton, uh
team, got the, uh, puck in there, uh
And that is what we are doing with our lives.