Michael Kindt's Blog, page 57

Have you tried plain ol' aspirin? Some dogs get stomach issues from it so depends on your dog. But after we took our old dog off R, aspirin was the solution. Just a regular buffered aspirin before bed (b'c it take a long time to go through dog system). Wor

From what I understand, dogs can’t handle aspirin. That it’s bad for them. It wasn’t like Dukey was in pain before, really. He got around fine. Slower, sure, but he got around. My vet told me he was arthritic. When I go to the vet my only focus is pain. “Is he in pain?” She told me “likely”. I think she might be wrong, or that it’s just normal pain and stiffness associated with aging. I’m in my 40s now. I sure as shit don’t feel like I did in my 20s. Haha

Have you tried plain ol' aspirin? Some dogs get stomach issues from it so depends on your dog. But after we took our old dog off R, aspirin was the solution. Just a regular buffered aspirin before bed (b'c it take a long time to go through dog system). Wor

From what I understand, dogs can’t handle aspirin. That it’s bad for them. It wasn’t like Dukey was in pain before, really. He got around fine. Slower, sure, but he got around. My vet told me he was arthritic. When I go to the vet my only focus is pain. “Is he in pain?” She told me “likely”. I think she might be wrong, or that it’s just normal pain and stiffness associated with aging. I’m in my 40s now. I sure as shit don’t feel like I did in my 20s. Haha

Have you tried plain ol' aspirin? Some dogs get stomach issues from it so depends on your dog. But after we took our old dog off R, aspirin was the solution. Just a regular buffered aspirin before bed (b'c it take a long time to go through dog system). Wor

From what I understand, dogs can’t handle aspirin. That it’s bad for them. It wasn’t like Dukey was in pain before, really. He got around fine. Slower, sure, but he got around. My vet told me he was arthritic. When I go to the vet my only focus is pain. “Is he in pain?” She told me “likely”. I think she might be wrong, or that it’s just normal pain and stiffness associated with aging. I’m in my 40s now. I sure as shit don’t feel like I did in my 20s. Haha

Have you tried plain ol' aspirin? Some dogs get stomach issues from it so depends on your dog. But after we took our old dog off R, aspirin was the solution. Just a regular buffered aspirin before bed (b'c it take a long time to go through dog system). Wor

From what I understand, dogs can’t handle aspirin. That it’s bad for them. It wasn’t like Dukey was in pain before, really. He got around fine. Slower, sure, but he got around. My vet told me he was arthritic. When I go to the vet my only focus is pain. “Is he in pain?” She told me “likely”. I think she might be wrong, or that it’s just normal pain and stiffness associated with aging. I’m in my 40s now. I sure as shit don’t feel like I did in my 20s. Haha

Rimadyl: An update on my dog Duke

The last time we were at the vet, 6 or so months ago, they X-rayed him all over and said he’s got arthritis. I wasn’t surprised. He is, numerically, already a year past the average age at which miniature pinschers die.

She prescribed Rimadyl, which I understood as, basically, dog Advil.

Nope.

Over the weeks and months he deteriorated alarmingly. He became confused, to the point where I thought he had dementia. Clumsy. Duke was always kind of a clumsy dog, but he became like a really drunk person, staggering. His eyes were half open. He slept all the time.

I did further and in depth research into Rimadyl and took his skinny dog ass right off it.

Dog Advil, my dick.

In just a week he is back to being Duke. He can go up and down stairs again. He is alert and spends time with you, rather than being conked out 22 of the 24 hours.

Yes, he is an old dog. Yes, he will die at some point, and sooner rather than later.

But that Rimadyl shit is bad news, at least for my dog. I mean, imagine if grandpa was whacked out on heroin all the time.

Brings a whole new meaning to the term “golden years”.

early-onset-of-night:Landscape With Yellow Birdsby the mighty...

early-onset-of-night:

Landscape With Yellow Birds

by the mighty Paul Klee,
who painted it entirely in the nude,
though fully clothed.
He lived a long time ago,
so the television wasn’t on
in the background,
but I do sense cigar smoke
somewhere.

Perhaps he did this in an atelier,
smoking cigars,
not listening to the television
because it wasn’t really invented yet.
He possessed a phonograph,
I imagine,
on which he only played
the darker Haydn.

Klee’s head is small and severe,
and his hair doesn’t stick out.
There’s a scrunched quality to his face,
with a hint of constipation,
and it sports a very square jaw.
This jaw squareness goes along
with the rest of the squareness
in his face.

His eyes are direct and penetrating.

He was a warrior and fought
at the time when warriors had spikes
on the tops of their helmets.
He spoke German and was German,
despite the embarrassment
of being born in Bern.
(Not a real town).

Perhaps he killed a man in France,
near the trenches,
while Snoopy flew overhead on his doghouse.
Though a warrior
with a phallic spike jutting from his helmet,
he was not a fan of war
and would not get along swimmingly
with current American neo-cons,
no matter what the the tabloids say.
He wrote at war’s outset: “I have long had this war in me.
That is why,
inwardly,
it is none of my concern.”

His two best friends,
Marc and Macke,
died in battle,
so he was wrong.

Klee suffered from scleroderma
and it would eventually kill him.
A systemic autoimmune disease
affecting primarily the skin,
it gradually removes the supple softness
of humanity,
replacing it with the fibrous, scaly hardness
of the reptilian.
It is terribly painful
and many art writers have noted
with comic obviousness
that Klee’s pain
seeped into his work.

This is like saying the sky is blue
and the ground dirty.

One of his last paintings,
“Death and Fire”,
features a skull
with the German word for death,
which is “Tod”.
The next time you meet a person
named Todd,
remember to laugh inwardly.

He died in Switzerland,
the land of his birth,
in 1940.
Despite being born in Switzerland
and even dying there,
he was not a Swiss citizen.
His attempts at it were always refused,
the sole reason being his art.
The staid and narrow-minded authorities
felt his painting was too revolutionary,
even degenerate,
for him to be Swiss.
Six days after his death, however,
they had a change of heart
and granted him posthumous
citizenship.

Bzzz! Too late.

He is buried in the ground
at Schosshaldenfriedhof,
in Bern.
(Not a real town).
If you happen to stop by,
tell him Mike says “Hi".

Tight Black Rubber - Black Francis[ Wearing one right now. All...

Tight Black Rubber - Black Francis

[ Wearing one right now. All killer no filler. ]

Parked for the night. Bottle of whiskey in hand, which up here...

Parked for the night. Bottle of whiskey in hand, which up here is only $5000. Had to cash out my IRA. Worth it.

Now for some Merle.

I'm part cowboy, on my mother's side.

I went looking for work at the Thunder Box Port-A-Potty Company on the outskirts of Fairbanks the other day.

I don’t know why, but I’ve always romanticized physical labor. What I’m realizing, tho, is that I’ve romanticized it for other people. There are all kinds of manly jobs in Alaska: chopping down trees, hauling up fish, squirting out oil, digging up special rocks [ commonly called “ores” ]. But they all seem really, really difficult. I am liable to get sore. Plus, God only knows how much they’d cut into my sittin’ around time.

My interview was with a guy named Kyle, who described himself as “one of the managers”.

[ It takes more than one? ]

The Thunder Box Port-A-Potty Company was in a warehouse. There were two flatbed trucks in the snow-dusted dirt parking lot with the company name painted on the doors when I arrived. Next to the name was a cartoon port-a-potty with lines painted around the edges to give the impression that it was experiencing an earthquake. The same name and logo was on the Kyle’s t-shirt.

“You Mike?” he said.

“Yep.”

It wasn’t so much an interview as a tour. To the right were dozens of port-a-potties. To the left was a port-a-potty washing area. There was a guy washing one with a hose that hung down from the ceiling of the warehouse. A large grate in the floor caught the water. The whole place smelled like shit.

He pointed to my right, his left. “These are the cleaned potties that are ready to go out.” He pointed to his right, my left. “This is where the dirty potties are cleaned. That’s Mark on poop duty.”

Mark waved and I waved back. Apart from the one he was working on, there were three others awaiting his attention. He wore a threadbare Van Halen t-shirt, goggles, and looked a little too happy, in my opinion.

“Obviously,” Kyle said, “we rent these out, mainly to construction sites and outdoor events–fairs, open-air concerts, and the like. Now that the warm season is here [ it was April 14th and 39 degrees out ] we’re starting to get busy, which is why we’re looking for another hand.”

Kyle walked on and I followed.

“You probably wouldn’t have guessed it,” he said, “but the waste actually varies according to the rental. Over here are our chemicals.”

We came to a tall shelf, which was filled with white gallon jugs. The labels of the jugs said SMELL AWAY! A little cartoon turd was in the corner of the label with the red ‘banned’ slash over it. “This is the main stuff we use. We fill up the tanks with it after an installation. It, as you can imagine, keeps the smell away, plus flies, which are attracted to human waste. Big time. Over here…”

We walked to a smaller shelf in the corner of the warehouse that also held gallon jugs, this time yellow ones. “Over here is the bad boy stuff.” The labels of the jugs read Reek-Be-Gone. Instead of an outlawed cartoon turd, there was a skull and crossbones. “This is the stuff we use mainly for construction sites. Those guys who work construction, Jesus Christ.” Kyle shook his head, then launched into a nightmare spiel about the different varieties of human shit that can occur based on location and event.

As I stood there trying not to listen, my mind clicked over to screen saver, which, lately, has been a clip of a gorgeous blonde slowly peeling off fishnet stockings. Wood sprouted in my jeans and I covered it up by putting my hands in the pockets of my jeans and balling them up into fists.

“Anyway,” Kyle was saying, “I think it has something to do with diet or the type of food offered at the event.”

“I must go now,” I said and left him standing there.

I needed a shower. Big time.

Story Time!

Have you been good little boys and girls?