Introduction to the Monographs

The new puppy rescued from the shithole at Pleasanton Animal Control is a border collie/howler monkey mix. After keening to me from the patio for most of the night, sleep deprivation won out.

The problem was remedied by bringing the cute little fella into the house to be loved, petted and allowed to chew the Ethernet cable to the Wii. The destruction of a fifty foot wire seemed to assuage his fretting discomfort and brought an end to the high pitched howling.

He was adopted out, very soon after (not soon enough), to a nice young couple who had not a clue as to his nocturnal serenade. I'm sure they will cope... somehow. If not, they can curse me out in one of those amorphous messages occasionally seen on Craig's List: 'To the jerk who unloaded this G*d D**d obnoxious dog on us'...you've seen the sort.

For the present, in the quiet hour before dawn, all the dogs--my personal pack of 6-- and 3 cats--laying around the couches, my office, the bedroom and the bath tub are dozing, waiting for sunrise to begin the day. I have perhaps forty minutes before the morning cacophony to peck out whatever peckings come to mind. I will not insult your intelligence by calling them thoughts.

I begin this tale of my life (how completely grandiose!) pasted on the Ethernet wall where lies the graffiti of the 21st Century. The juxtaposition of print on screen rather than fine vellum doesn't make me an anachronistic Neanderthal; it makes me a lazy SOB without a mountain of wadded paper on the floor below a greasy Underwood portable. Samuel Dashiell Hammett, roll over in your grave.

Perhaps some alien archaeologist will discover this on a resurrected hardrive in the infinite future, and ponder its meaning. After trying to answer that first vital question posed to the off-world diggers; namely, 'What religion did all those prolific golden arches represent?', my electronic scribble will nonplus the little green buggers with, I hope, equal enigma...

Incidentally, the {...} may dot these musings from time to time: it signifies that I have mentally drifted off the page, but that I will return. Some of you may not wish me to return. To you I have only three little words: 'Delete. Sure? Delete'.

I note in reviewing this mélange that there is a place to entreat my readers to like, comment and share. So, follow me to Perdition...or not: the language will become more fecund and the thoughts more outrageous; but as to whether anyone is liking me or not, I give not a rat's ass.