ogs. Dogs indeed.
German tourists in Indiana dont understand the semiotics. They think
the reason there is a greyhound on the side of the buses is because the
people who ride them are the dogs of America. Quoth Montfort:
I dont ride buses. Dogs.
Yeah. Like Scott and William riding to Dallas-Fort Worth. Like William
coming home from Providence, or Florida, or Chicago. Dogs. Like the
dogs of literature, riding buses down the hypertext highway.
And thats not the kind of dogs that get groomed in Frisco.
At dog grooming salons that cater to a largely male homosexual clientele,
like Glamour Bitch in the Haight. In this case, they hardly qualify as
dogs: your Fifis, your Pierres, your Jacques. Pomeranians, Chihuahuas,
miniatures. Long-haired breeds that more resemble rodents than they
dogs. Tiny creatures that would never lunge against razor wire fences,
baying ferociously at passersby like great junkyard dogs. They are not
Doberman Pinschers, Great Danes, or pit bulls. These are no watchdogs.
These are only dogs a burglar might step
on in the dark, causing them to emit a shrill yelp an octave above a cats
The Unknown drink tapwater out of plastic, they eat hot dogs, and drink
beer out of cans. They sleep on sofas and
floors, and walk around outdoors for long periods of time. They are normally
not allowed in restaurants such as the Cafe Loup in Midtown. They are
not of distinguished breeding, nor are they ever taken to exquisite salons.
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