Boxer vs. Boxer

Of these two warriors, IntangibleArts' own GOMEZ is the slightly smaller one. Motley has the white patch on the back of the neck...It's a tender ballet of joy, as performed by a pair of spastic knuckleheads.

Gomez is a hose ho.

AND NAAH, the spray wasn't that hard.

As I suppose anyone knows,
one must protect a hose-ho's nose,
with it being so exposed,
as Gomez the hose-ho's nose is.

But as the summer heat grows
and the garden hose flows,
a hose-ho's nose will strike a pose:
to get the ever-lovin' snot blown out of it.

ah, joy.

A summertime reality-check

Gomez rather enjoys the heat and would like me to kindly stop whining about it, please. Oh, and put that goddamned camera down. This tennis ball won't throw itself, jeez...

Gomez Explains Binary Code

Gomez Explains Binary Code: A humble boxer demonstrates his grasp of computer arithmetic with zen-like precision.

In other news:

Dunkin Donuts has pulled a web ad featuring a photo of Rachael Ray, because it offends Fox News pundits. Michelle Malkin said Ray's paisley scarf resembles a Keffiyeh (middle-eastern headdress), and Fox News was quick to "educate" the American public that these scarves are the fingerprint of Palestinian terrorism.

That's right: Donut-eaters are now supporting worldwide terrorism. I'm lookin' at YOU, mister jelly-filled! You're in league with RACHAEL RAY! That giggling pixie is Guantanamo bound, and not a moment too soon!

Christ on a crapper, people!

Is it any wonder why Americans are seen as the over-privileged idiots of the world? If THIS is worthy of outrage, it would be fair to sack the talking heads of Fox News because they "could be mistaken" for actual journalists.

And finally:

Head over to Prince of Petworth, where my latest guest post went up yesterday: a brief examination (with some selfish navel-gazing) about the McMillan Reservoir, and its place in the neighborhood. Good stuff.

You gonna finish that donut? I didn't bring lunch today...

Fun with home vivisection

Wikipedia defines vivisection as "any experimental cutting of, or surgery on, a living organism. More broadly, the term is often used today to describe any experiment upon living animals."

So we're talking about the broader definition here: No cutting, but definitely experimenting.

Firstly: One of the two creatures in the photo ATE A LIVE BUMBLEBEE this morning. And it wasn't the handsome chap on the right.

This, on top of the fact that we're now 24 hours into weaning him onto Science Diet's Lamb & Rice formula, should be interesting (Science Diet products are legendary for their ability to produce, uh, explosive digestive conditions if not introduced gradually into a dog's diet).

So now we've got a potentially volatile food in there, with a pissed-off bumblebee ghost sitting on top of it. The quintessential "recipe for disaster"?

And who said animal experimentation wasn't great fun?

CRASH of the TITANS!

It unfolded like one of the great Viking Sagas, I tell you...

The greater DC area Boxer Meetup for February was today, at a fenced dog park in Annandale, Virginia. It was a long haul for us DC folks, but not bad. Gomez wasn't driving anyway, so he had no reason to complain.

Some 37 members of the meetup group had sent a positive RSVP through the website, so I figured if even a decent percent turned up, it would be a swirling vortex of BOXER MADNESS.

But they came. A polite trickle at first, and then.....


Xerxes (the fawn) came from nowhere, it seemed, and he had chosen Gomez (the brindle) for the great smackdown of the century.


Gomez snapped into action at the first hint of challenge: Put yer paw on ME, eh fawnie? I'll have your nose for lunch! Bwah!


But no! Xerxes deploys the great Kung Fu Freakout Paw technique, in an attempt to stun Gomez with rancid Kung Fu extremism! It is like a puppy-toe that points to the moon...

NO, I shout to Gomez: Don't look at the puppy-toe, or you'll miss ALL THE HEAVENLY GLORY!


Gomez gets the Enter the Dragon reference right away and snaps out of his stupor just in time to deliver a Johnny Sokko/Flying Robot-style superpunch that sends Xerxes reeling back, smashing several of Tokyo's office buildings to rubble! Oh the humanity!


Panting with fatigue, the warriors nod to each other; a wordless agreement of stalemate. We are boxers. We are awesome. This fight cannot be won. This is a total, like, mutually-assured-destruction trip we're on, man, yeah...


NO! Super-uncool fakeout technique! Xerxes signals to his henchman Boxer X (didn't get his name), and the two overwhelm Gomez in a shocker flipout wrestling move! I shall call it The Flying Fungus! What will become of Gomez now?!!?


He laughs at the sunlight in total idiotic glory: What the hell were we fighting about again?

Year and a day

Quite the milestone, this was...
Gomez hit the big OH-ONE yesterday.

He was born 29dec06 in Gettysburg, PA. It was a gorgeous litter, but he was definitely the King-Ultra-Lord-Captain and overall groovy guy of the bunch. That was clear even at 4 weeks old, when we first saw him. And again at 8 weeks, when he came home to DC.


His mum is in the deepest wilds of Virginia this weekend, visiting some relatives. This means the birthday was just us DUDES. It was a real man's event; a coming-of-age ritual worthy of the Viking champions:

A good blast of chaos at the dog park: running, wrestling, and freaking out, followed by a good hearty meal at home and running in spastic circles around the living room, chasing the rope/tennis-ball thing while blasting the greatest friggin' rock 'n roll album of all time (recently reissued on 180-gram vinyl, gods be praised). Thereafter, much loud, terrible, warrior-quality snoring.

The snoring was all him. I can't compete with that.

Gomez has been a bouncing bucket o' good vibes, and it has been a sweet honor to witness this monster develop. Maybe someday he'll grow into that great flopping mouth of his. Happy birthday, sugarbutt.

Dad...this is not fun.

Gomez: "Alright, I'll do it, but goddammit, I'm NOT gonna smile...." Click the pic to enlarge. He's only following those instructions half-way. Lazy bum.

Flakes. For the memories.

A cold night on Irving Street NW.

Just doing my civic photobloggin' duty of capturing the first snowfall in DC for 2007. The stuff fell all day--a moist, packing snow. It blew sideways against street signs and held there like cobwebs. I had taken the camera for a walk during lunch, hoping to catch "the shot." You know the one. Some photojournalistic street scene involving typical DC power-brokers, angrily stomping down K Street in the driving snow, leaning into the gusts with their expensive black coats and scowling at the wet flakes...

ehh, screwit. Seemed more appropriate to keep it to the neighborhood. I'm sure the Post will run "the shot" today, as captured by somebody who actually got paid for it.


Gomez was hilarious with this. The last time he saw snow, he was 8 weeks old and roughly the size of a bread-bowl filled with freakout chowder.

He clearly didn't remember the stuff, but now, he fears it NOT AT ALL. New favorite activity is being totally obliterated with snowballs. He can't get enough. He'll stand there and beg for it:

HIT ME AGAIN! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, HIT ME AGAIN!!!

This will be a very interesting season.

This Gomez goes to eleven.

23november: Nice how the protective car backseat-cover can work like a photographer's seamless backdrop thingie... Gomez rides home following a mammoth sprint at the dog park in Adams Morgan, DC.

He's just about eleven months old now: still very much a puppy, but has the body of a lurching oaf. Easy to forget he's still a burbling infant spaz. I'm betting he hits 70 pounds before long.

Most of that weight would be in the mouth, by the look of it.

We're still tempted to stage a hugely obnoxious first-year birthday party next month. Something to blow his mind all to goofy pieces. There can be no better way to bounce in the new year, eh?

hmm.....

Every dog has his day.

It's been a while since last post. No time, no time. There has been no time.

It often goes down like that, when we near printer deadlines, and there's still a 5-page feature on the way, because the author is still tracking down another subject for a CRITICAL interview, because THIS GUY will be the one with all the money-quotes, but he's been on vacation, or he hasn't been answering his calls, or his press handler is an agoraphobic Nazi who claims to understand publishing but insists on sending low-resolution head-shots, but it doesn't matter because supposedly I could have designed the feature ahead of time with no raw material and only the faintest notion of what to expect, based on a conversation at a meeting two weeks ago, where the format of the feature was described in some loose-and-fruity brainstorm manner, which means I somehow magically should have had The Big Idea in my head, and can design a perfectly balanced skeleton for the feature with no live copy, no working headline, and an estimated wordcount based on some random, insane spasm experienced during a meeting that happened even EARLIER than the other meeting, where I magically got The Big Idea injected into my bloodstream like Philip K. Dick getting signals from the Supreme Being in VALIS..........

What was I saying?

Oh yes. Every dog has his day.

In this case, Gomez has his day. Or he had it yesterday, when DCist picked the shot above for their coveted Photo Of The Day slot. We had gone to Glen Echo Park in Maryland for a change of scenery last weekend, and much to Gomez's delight, we found a water-fountain with super powers.

Oh, and that feature? It did finally come in, but needless to say it won't be the portfolio trophy piece it could've been...

Our boy has a drug problem.

A still-life, with Christ and pills. Specifically, Gomez's post-neuter antibiotic. Client and doctor names have been removed from the label, to protect the innocent, the guilty, and the potentially negligent.

The instructions clearly say: give TWO pills TWICE a day for 14 days. That's a total of FOUR daily, two thousand milligrams of Cephalexin sunshine. No problem. Gomez has a junkie’s weakness for peanut butter, which makes jamming pills down his throat much simpler for everyone:

“Dude! Time for your meds...” and he comes running, literally drooling for a fix.

It wasn't until we got closer to the end of the supply that we discovered we'd been given enough for half the dosage specified on the label.

So what's wrong here: the number of pills, or the instructions? Is this a wicked new reality show, where a hidden camera feeds our confused looks back to a lounge filled with drunken veterinarians, pissing themselves with laughter when we realize we’ve been overdosing our dog?

I suspect the instructions are at fault here, not the amount of pills we were given. Four pills a day seems like a lot, but then, it was surgery... We’ll find out soon. Either way, it's a nice little heart attack for us humans, trying to do the right thing and finding out, uh, no. We were not.

UPDATE: It was neither. The error was in the “14 days” -- Should have been 7 days. So it wasn't as bad as all that. But still. We'll be starting fresh with a new vet this Saturday, and these guys come with almost universal praise from the neighborhood.

...never did like "reality" TV shows, particularly ones that exist only in my paranoid fantasies. Damn those giggling vets and their faulty medication instructions and their hidden cameras.

A total nut job

It's Sunday morning as I write this, and the neighborhood ladies are strolling towards church in their quiet dignity. It's a weekly procession which I find pleasant, despite my lack of the Christian habit. It's a time when the place resembles a "neighborhood" more. We all seem to be members of a club, those of us who choose to be awake at this hour on a Sunday.

But our reasons for being up and about are not the same. It's a very different scene at Intangible House, where for the past 48 hours the topic has been, invariably, balls.

Friday was Neuter Day for Gomez. We dropped him off at the vet in the morning, collected the body after work, and it's been a tragic/comic opera ever since.


He was typically stunned when we brought him home, as the dregs of anesthesia left his bloodstream. His was the sleep of the dead, without even the characteristic twitch of dreaming dogs...totally on the nod.

So far, he hasn't pestered after his incision much at all. No licking or chewing back there. This is encouraging, as I've heard that some pups don't need the elizabethan collar during healing times. We've put the collar on him twice, as a training exercise. Or as an exercise in absurd cruelty, depending on your point of view.


Predictably, he flew into a suffering fit, as if we'd set his head on fire. So now the prospect of leaving for work tomorrow with him in that collar is NOT comforting, even with extra visits to check on him. I figure we might come home to a terrible disaster scene. But overall it's been a fine experience, and Gomez seems to be rebounding nicely.

We are a bit disenchanted with his vet, though. Seems we had to specifically ask for every bit of aftercare advice we got: How long for healing, when can he be fed/watered after surgery, when can he be bathed, what about the e-collar, etc. For the love of christ, we're not the experts. This is why we go to a VET.

So here we are, days after the procedure, still thinking of questions which are, honestly, things they should have told us before taking Gomez home. Or at the very least, they could print some goddamned brochures for people to take away. Seems odd that we ended up surfing the web for post-op advice. So, despite the stellar endorsement by the DC police K-9 team for this particular vet, we'll be shopping around for a new one.

Local readers: any suggestions for a vet in Ward One? The folks at Green Pets seem big on City Paws on 14th street, but I'd rather hear it from real people vs. another business.

In the meantime, gotta find a cure for Pink Floyd's Comfortably Numb, which has been stuck in my head since Friday night. Appropriate choice, sure, but enough already...

Simpson and Son

In honor of the Simpsons Movie opening today, I'll indulge in a little avatar weirdness. These days, everybody's making little clones of themselves on the movie's website, and heck, I'm not too proud to join the fun. But I had to try something different, and "apply directly to the forehead" so to speak.

And the resemblance is a bit creepy, but Gomez doesn't seem fazed.

Jeez, dad, not another head transplant...

Milestones: Gomez turns 0.5

Somehow, in all the flurry of activity recently, we neglected to mark the passing of Gomez's greatest achievement; that of staying alive for six months. And it is GOOD and PROPER to reflect on the past six months! Hasn't VH1 taught us that even YESTERDAY is ripe for nostalgic plunder? (I love the '90s? Yeesh!)

So plunder we shall! All hail the rubber-faced weirdo, as he turns 6 months old! Turn back the hands of time, and re-live this wacky tale with us...

We first saw our little manatee at the breeder's place, at 4 weeks old. The intent was to check out the litter and see if any of the puppies stood out, demanded attention, etc. At first, none did. They were all the same, all cute, bumbling little stooges. Being so young, what the hell could they do besides roll around and grunt? They were just wobbling hairy potatoes, scarcely out of the womb. What kind of personality could they possibly.....


Wait. That's the one.

Uh, I think that one has bonded already. Literally. Who has chosen whom, I wondered? This pup was a diamond in a pile of tater-tots. He was the most focused and determined of the bunch. Not bossy, but strong and curious. He even had a physical heft that his litter-mates lacked.


Four weeks later, we're taking him home. Two months old and still resembling a manatee/potato more than a boxer. He seemed perpetually stunned by life, a quality I'm sure he gets from me. And no, it doesn't wear off. At this stage, he lived almost entirely in my lap.


At nine weeks old, he was still mastering the art of stairs. The slick hardwood surface of the inside staircase sent him skidding across the landing like a greased chicken in a bowling alley...always good for a laugh. The deck stairs (pictured) seemed easier to negotiate, but it obviously took the concentration of a brain surgeon.

At eleven weeks, he began developing that quintessential Boxer trait: Severely Advanced and Terminal Obsessive/Compulsive Disorder Sicko Craziness. At random times, he would stare into your eyes in a desperate attempt to make telepathic contact. Once telepathy was achieved, it became clear that he had nothing to say. All you heard was the echo of birds and crickets in his empty, cavernous mind. Sure, he's smart. But he's an idiot. And that's marvelous.


Regarding the obsessive/compulsive thing: At twelve weeks, Gomez discovered that the greatest, most magical thing on earth is any damned stick he could find. In the photo above, Marian is off-camera, simply holding a stick. And Jumping Jesus, Gomez just can't believe it. GOD-DAMMIT, he says, THAT'S A FREAKIN' STICK you got there...


At 13 weeks, he was fully in the gawky adolescent stage, where his body looked like a mixed bag of pieces and parts: feet growing faster than his torso, head growing faster than his feet, damn...it's a miracle this mess of an animal could even stand up.


Four months old here. He still had the leash-walking manners of a demented speedfreak, but he was well-behaved at the vet, despite all the horrific things they did to him in there. This photo was taken just after the visit where he came face-to-face with a fully grown neapolitan mastiff in the waiting room. It was surely the biggest creature he'd ever seen. Nothing like a dose of sacred humility: Don't ever think you're the big man in town, 'cuz you may turn a corner and have to face one of those beasts. Afterwards, he still had to negotiate the mind-numbing array of smells that 18th Street/Adams Morgan had to offer. He slept a very long time after this.


The Obsessive/Compulsive thing evolved a bit, and Gomez becomes more discerning in his freakouts. Here, he has abandoned all his previous toys in favor of a disposable flowerpot, worth about nine cents. It became his best friend for nearly a week. OH, how they romped and played in the sun...


...which brings us to present day. Six months old, and he's probably around 45-50 pounds, definitely forming his adult set of jowls, and still as bright-eyed and insane as the day he latched onto Marian's nose, declaring her "mummy."

We should definitely stage one insane barn-burner of a one-year birthday party. Assuming he (and we) live that long.

Gomez vs. Bruce

His name is Bruce. Bruce is a Totally Inanimate Stone Dragon Thing. Bruce was liberated from a fabulous junkshop on Georgia Avenue. He guards the house. He is most awesome. He is Bruce. And he knows it. And Bruce is hungry.



The braided beef stick will be the prize in this battle of wills between Gomez and his new arch-nemesis, Bruce the Totally Inanimate Stone Dragon Thing.


Gomez has spotted his arch-nemesis, Bruce the Totally Inanimate Stone Dragon Thing, and suspects his braided beef stick is at risk of imminent thievery!


Gomez plays it cool as Bruce (the Totally Inanimate Stone Dragon Thing) approaches menacingly, fangs drooling with anticipation for the taste of that braided beef stick. This will indeed be an earth-shattering smackdown of biblical proportions!


The two combatants study each other, weighing potential weaknesses, flexing muscles, steeling nerves for battle. The braided beef stick will be the prize, and there can only be one winner in this contest.


ARGH!!! In an unexpected blitz manoever, Bruce the Totally Inanimate Stone Dragon Thing rapidly seizes the braided beef stick from the rubbery mouth of Gomez. Bruce wields the beef stick with a champion's arrogance, but will the victory last?!?!?!


NO! The victory is short-lived, as Gomez takes advantage of the swaggering pause and reclaims his braided beef stick from his arch-nemesis, Bruce the Totally Inanimate Stone Dragon Thing.



....and then, having won the battle, Gomez reclines with his prized braided beef stick, as Bruce (the Totally Inanimate Stone Dragon Thing) retreats to his post, to guard the house without the benefit of beef sticks.

.........Honestly, the nerve of some Totally Inanimate Stone Dragon Things.

Fear and Loathing on the back deck

Gomez.....where did daddy's peyote disappear to?

............Gomez?

Hot Dog

Summer is here. Gomez says so. Hot outside. Cool inside. That is all.

Railing against authority

Alright, it's been a long time since last post, and the dedicated readers of Intangible Arts (all three of you) may be wondering if there's still life in these old bones.

Alas, there is. We're not dead yet.

But due to a crush of deadlines at the day-job, there hasn't been much time to grease the old gray matter and make with the profound verbals. Thus, I offer an updated Gomez shot to pass the time. He's 17 weeks old today, and that raises a question. Perhaps my co-bloggers with kids can address this one:

At what point does one typically start referring to a child's age in months as opposed to weeks? I realize I'm no math whiz (or any kind of whiz, actually), but when I hear "seventeen weeks," it requires a rapid calculation...

uh....... that's.... what...... four months and a week. He's gotta be old enough to be in "months" by now.

Last week's vet visit included the last of his puppy shots, so now he can mingle with the dirty dogs of the world without fear of catching the plague. As well, he clocked in at a mighty 25 pounds, which means by the time we start measuring his age in YEARS, he should be about 470 pounds and roughly the size of a metrobus.

Can't wait for that one.

Boxer Diplomacy: a primer

STEP 1
When meeting an Ornamental Oversized Heavyweight Metallic Garden Ant (O.O.H.M.G.A.) for the first time, you must exhibit an attitude of nonchalance bordering on aloof arrogance. Pretend you're hardly noticing the ant. Then proceed swiftly to Step 2.


STEP 2
Approach with cautious confidence. Sniff antennae without pausing. You MUST get through this with no question of your natural superiority. Remember: life is a quest for dominance and all encounters, particularly encounters with OOHMGAs, could have lasting diplomatic consequences if handled poorly. Give the antennae a bold sniff. Betray nothing in your expression. Keep moving directly to Step 3.


STEP 3
After sniffing antennae to assert your confidence, proceed directly to the Ornamental Oversized Heavyweight Metallic Garden Ant's backside. Sniff liberally. Don't let on that you're aware it isn't just another dog. This is important to establish dominance by the end of the encounter. Feign curiosity, as though you're convinced it's a strange new breed... some weird skinny mexican insectoid dog breed, or something.


STEP 4
Having performed the first three steps, exhale through the nose with a hint of boredom and trot away from the OOHMGA.... and forget the awful thing ever existed.