Boston Terriers are dicks. Yeah, the bug-eyed black-and-white bastards are so ugly they're precious and will lap your mug up like the beer dogs prefer 2-to-1 over God-given water, but don't be fooled. The Bible references the "souls of domestic animals" proof of Doggy Heaven, but those pricks see only means not ends and die whores diving directly to Doggy-you-already-know. How come I'm your authority on matters spiritual of these beasts (also cursed with gnarly dandruff, I'll add)? Victim-hood, read ownership of one. That cad answered to "Rocky" among other names...

     After Dad expired (see: "Sno White" under Stories) I could score about anything within our budget (like a Siamese who croaked two days later, piles of cassettes and comics, a pizza party with one of those giant decorated mall cookies, and my personal den with a 600 lb. fold-out loveseat, right off the top). Fourteen revolutions dreaming of a Boston and a birthday on the horizon I milked that mofo for all it was worth, Rocky debuting as indoor to our Rat-Terrier-mix Clyde's outdoor.

My devoted senior dog loathed this newcomer who idolized him, Xeroxing his movements bowel and otherwise. Clyde was subdued by chain-link

 

 

 

 

 

 

surrounding our yard but born-criminal "Rock" tunneled in a heartbeat, evaporating into labyrinths of subdivision adjoining the golf course/country club blocks away.

     Our four-pawed scofflaw would vanish for a day or two, me snatching him up on my bike hoofing it blocks away or whining on the loud red stoop before our white aluminum sided cracker-box domicile with black shudders. Attendance lapses grew longer over the weeks. Gal-Pal/Partner-In-Crimes Lisa had me drop by after school and sitting on the sofa responding to "Ringo" was my deadbeat dog, where he'd crashed a couple of days fostering in the Deming's brown brick abode eating like Henry VIII. I explained my pet store purchase credentials so they allowed me to tote the burger-bloated heathen out. Recurrent diarrhea explained, I became astringent in controlling his movements, as Northpoint Training Center overdoes my population.

     Leashes were rarer than media integrity in

 

 

 

 

 

that locality and era but I employed one on the block plus guarding from the patio any time the loose-cannon took a backyard boom-boom. 547 Oaklawn's new conundrum? "Rocky Gonzales" bolting out the front any time five seconds of opportunity was presented. The Ernest Borgnine-looking butthole was obsessed with emancipation no matter how well his days went, existing as privileged as a four legged Paris Hilton with me playing nervous husband trying to keep my slut wife home. Gaines Burgers, toys, robust play time, commandeering of the waterbed I'd whined out of Mama Betty Jane (like most non-swinging consumers the charm died scarcely a week after purchase) yet his cheatin' heart kept him eyeballing the door like it was sculpted from KFC.

     Finally I agreed to an open marriage, as clearly the only way to work was open the door and allow him maneuvering of our planet. If you love someone set them free, if they return they're yours forever, if not you blew a TON on

 

 

 

 

Liv'R'snaps, Bub. Predictably, Rocky turned community property. His major score was Rolling Hills Country Club, where those dwarf legs traversed acres of hilly greens (wouldn't put it past him to accept a ride off a complete stranger driving a sporty golf cart) to the Clubhouse. There he wolfed down steak off multiple plates on the regular, and likely net-fuls of shrimp.

     Fading into obscurity I forgot the second

dog until he'd be mentioned to my emotional flat-line. Nobody wants a companion whose fidelity extended to the entire population. Most do at first until the mechanics align with time fleshing the scene out. When someone's there for everyone, they fail somebody every time and it's generally a being of consequence. Relationships require priority and sacrifices with love being a verb too frequently mistook for a noun.

     In this environment anyone could guess packs are the order of things. Wise movement dictates

 

 

 

 

 

small circles with broad networks. Depending on digs, I keep around four felons in my microcosm who I share food, beverages, favors, and patience with. Being a 10-year storied resident I've met and hear my name from the pie-slots of close to a thousand khaki slaves regularly. Still, the first four are that - first. Although I love my community I observe the Aristotelian Golden Mean - not to the sacrificial extent lest I become worthless to those in my orbit counting on me. I require likewise. Being a pragmatist I apply logic instead of emotion to get long-term responses generally more emotionally solvent. I see relationships as business and assess elements like assets vs. liabilities, growth potential, and the like for inner circle dynamics.

     Fish, or YAPS (Young Ass Punks) of contemporary Corrections are afflicted with the syndrome of entitlement plaguing the asphalt. Visible exasperation spotted on the heads of junior

 

 

 

 

lawbreakers for not being included in meals

they've chipped in nothing but interest to living nightly reruns tips a pre-30 deadbeat iceberg.

     Thing is, everybody wants them. Sexually, asexually, domestically, kid-they-never-had-

but A) always wanted B) makes up for the "Pancake" - that first one they fucked up C) want to turn into a junkie mini-them success story who knows their limits D) they can bone like they would have the one they didn't have because adult sex wasn't achievable. A young inmate can blab about any inane topic for days to a crop of aging unfortunates acting like it's a revealing TedTalk.

     What's the intersection of these concepts? Picking and staying with partners or groups when the free world revolves around them. Charisma kills, unfortunately, in a culture that wants to bottle and horde it.

     Not too recently I pointed out to Psych associates I felt like chemicals released in my cranium when somebody entered. I could

 

 

 

 

 

pontificate wisely and exhibit stellar vocabulary mastery, then hanging with others be rendered a Ghetto slob incapable of sentence construction. Am I a poser? I don't mean or want to, my brain seems to drive off without permission. Going deeper it happened sexually too. Chameleon reaction to those I connected with, both ends of anima/animus and points in-between rising like foam depending on eye-contact landed me on the lexicon of now with "gender-fluid" which might complicate by trying to simplify. A person of letters told me this maladaptation developed when I was young to survive likely, OK to discard now that I recognize it as problematic. My philosophy is once you're a known victim you proceed to survivor.

     At a point groups don't form to hear the chosen one's bullshit anymore says my experience unless they have something to back it up with. Lucky me unearthed writing through multiple encouraging people and situations. All

 

 

 

 

those versions that rose up united under a voice exorcised from my lobes and out of my hoof and mouth. Now I'm more consistent and eased like I wish I'd been decades earlier. Adages live on 'coz' reasons as "Youth gets wasted on the young" is evidence.

     The gravitation to cult acceptance breeds sociopathic behavior I've seen. Being everyones bestie makes them somebody's worstest. Everyone loves gossip - it releases endorphins, say studies maybe funded by TMZ's parent company Satan. The more sanctimonious the grander the shit-talker, much like dudes who tell me they're anti-drama only to be staging a dramatization of "The Ike and Tina Story" with a partner minutes later.

     Problem being multiple compadres when all are being greased and alternately bashed by those everybody adores. This is real and regular. I have a family member, the ultimate caution of this phenomenon. Smart, funny, and attractive in his day he captivated audiences nationwide. Finally

 

 

 

 

settling on a woman and crafting two kids they bedded down around four years before the pressure of loyalty proved too crushing. Armed with horse-shit excuses he emptied the family coffers and headed on the road, mesmerizing rich folks, stealing wives and girlfriends, manipulating innocents, and feeding his top of many addictions - power over people. He genuinely loves and loves to be loved by whomever he's interfacing with. The next face he sets upon resets his psyche and if they loathe the last, he joins their contempt uncontrollably. Unable to navigate social functions, he can't morph into the personae needed for the job so he runs away or stages a fit. Approaching death, he's alone painted into

a corner of isolation from a lifetime trying to be all things to everyone but unworthy of anyone.

     For these young who are wearing out welcomes quickly with quality people exhausted from unheeded advice, disloyalty, and poor return on investment, I mightve augured a future to

 

 

 

 

them in the paragraph prior. Finance and sex arent the only donations of value, either. Solidarity, defending the name(s) of your partner(s), doing errands without being asked, walking astride, and listening coupled with learning from/with are commodities too.

    No one wants to do life alone but many lack a choice and some abandon it because of failures they've seen and felt. Luck is having options and the wisdom to utilize them correctly.

     Lastly, would ONE of you wonderful

motherfuckers speak up already?? Six months without a peep. Site analysis tells us you're around, now feedback please. Whaddup with you foreign travelers? Turkey, Russia, Istanbul, Singapore - welcome! Talk to me, I'm fascinated...

   

BatTunes 3/23:

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The Boogie Man - "When the Funk Rains Down":

 

 

 

 

 

Missing this 2014 jam at release I'll drop it here anyhow, Pal. Rare is the occasion someone tries to recapture excitement succeeding beyond intention. This is PURE funk, not cut with baby laxatives. You'll quake all night to bass, horns, J.B. moments, disco riffs, and solid bridgework pressing replay until you hit the ER over a finger jam.

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Eden Gray feat Cornershop - " Amsterdam via Rotterdam" - With my patented "If I can't

fuck to it I won't fuck with it" audio politic, lyrics rank low. These lament lifes 20/20 rear-view thru watercolor canals of my later '20s, caressing the sweet-spots. What sells Gray's plaintive, more-than-serviceable vox on her 2025 number is Cornershop's robot-slink-funk sound-bed elevating a cut to rare territory (springs to mind the industry-altering "Oh Suzanne" remix of "Tom's Diner" by Suzanne Vega executed by DNA),

 

 

 

 

 

displaying the possibilities of bright collab juxtaposition.

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Bruno Mars - "I Just Might": Off :20 sec allotments this was the lone track from " The Romantic" I was inclined to plunk down the institutional rape charge for. Unsurprising as I'm one in five at best for Baby Bruno. Said, when I love one I love it's widdle ass off. This is what I show for - funky sexy uber-swagger with a sweaty crescendo, a'la The Jacksons. If you've only clams for a single jam here's a safe deposit.

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Thee Marloes - "Under the Silver Moon": If all else fails, my getting up was justified in a single download. Marloes being my favorite Indonesian import since Katjap Manis sauce got slapped on meatloaf at Ed and Fred's Desert Moon (R.I.P.), this seductive hip-swinger has a pinch of Riperton plus a teaspoon of Winehouse for a combo sweeter than

 

 

 

 

 

that other exotic glaze. Pair this with something spicy tonight, Homey-O!

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Seize Y'all Next Week! xoxoxo Sunken Batlantis