Herb Williams-Dalgart's Blog

The Eyes of An Old Dog

My English Springer Spaniel, Penny, is about to turn 14.
Penny has persistent arthritis, growing cataracts, frequent ear infections, and a skin allergy that requires us to make her food by hand every week. This month, in spite of the lengths we go to in order to prevent her from doing so, she had a fit of scratching and accidentally damaged the cornea of her left eye.
Now, as a result, she’s totally blind in that eye. Just add that to the poor dog's list of unfortunate ailments. If Candide had a dog... (little literary joke for my Lit Major friends out there!)
A Google search will reveal to those who are interested that the average lifespan of an English Springer Spaniel is also 14. It’s a good thing Penny doesn’t use Google (Poodle?).
Those among us who have presided over the aging process of a beloved animal know that the experience is not for the timid. Aside from the expense of veterinary bills (I recall Penny’s $3,000 knee replacement surgery when she was 10), the aging process is characterized by notable slowing in activity, increased grumpiness, an escalation in the number of naps, and a waning interest in recreation.
The older I get, the more I recognize these symptoms in myself.
However, in spite of the tangible evidence reminding me and Penny which side of the hill she is on, Penny behaves as though the end is far from sight. Then again, this could simply be because she’s half-blind and everything is far from sight. Still, I can’t help but cringe, seeing her limp at times her arthritis is bad or feel troubled at the increasing frequency with which I have to wake her up to remind her it’s dinner time. Once upon a time, it was her job to remind me.
I'm keenly aware of her suffering each time I’m baking her cauliflower or chopping potatoes or cutting up salmon for the weekly slop we prepare for her. In spite of how much I hate to spend my time that way, I wouldn’t trade places with her for anything.
Yesterday, while home alone, I watched Penny sitting by the back sliding glass door, looking through the screen window, presumably working to focus her one working eye on something out there in our yard. I couldn’t help but wonder what it was she was looking at or, perhaps, looking for. Maybe she wasn’t looking at, or for, anything. Maybe she was just thinking, pondering her dog thoughts or canine philosophies or just trying to weigh the benefits or drawbacks of rising on her tentative legs to investigate the uncertain drama caused by lizards or birds or rabbits by the bushes along the fence.
Since her cornea incident, and in the recent months before it, Penny has fought to adjust to the body in which she is trapped. Her mind is still eager to make it all work, whatever “working” looks like to a feeble, but loyal, old dog.
As a man of a certain age, I can relate. Like Penny, I too see a little less well than I used to. I take more naps. I rally against the trappings of a body that doesn’t move like it used to. At some point, like an old pocket watch, we all start to miss a few moments, struggling against the cogs that fail to turn as they used to. And still, like her, I look to what lies ahead with enthusiasm. I think about what’s next and I work to be more defined by what I can do than by the things I can’t (or won’t) do. And, like her, I spend a little extra time contemplating whether an effort is worth it—certainly more than I used to.
But what I also notice is that, in spite of her discomfort, in spite of the protests of her uncooperative, factory-manufactured knees, she still harbors an irrational enthusiasm revealed between lengths of inactivity. She still manages to enjoy the promise of occasional treats, the smell of the summer through the screen window, the cool of the hardwood floor on a hot day, the presence of her family, the value of her life.
And it’s clear to me—clearer than the vision of her one working eye—you may not be able to teach an old dog new tricks, but old dogs can still teach us a thing or two.


© 2016 Herb Williams-Dalgart

Puppy Love

The contempt my newest dog seems to have for unsupervised shoes, belts, socks, underwear, or packages leaves me to wonder what happened to him in the seven months before we adopted him. It’s impressive how quickly and thoroughly he can dispatch, dismember, and disregard these items—usually belonging to my wife—but far more impressive is his ability to forget the humiliating chastisement and painful solitude with which we reward him each time he violates the non-aggression pact we’ve theoretically made. I suppose the same could be said for my wife, whom I’ve warned against leaving such items lying about. She, too, seems to forget the consequences of prior behavior.
Maybe I’m missing the obvious. It has occurred to me there is a conspiracy here by which my wife rids herself of unwanted clothing in exchange for giving my dog the opportunity to unleash his unholy ire on inanimate objects. He gets a recreational outlet. She gets an excuse to buy new clothes. I’m the one left, literally picking up the pieces.
This, of course, could be the result of my overactive imagination which is a feature of my spectacular midlife crisis, currently underway. More to come on that.
My dog has also decided that bringing in pieces of poop from the yard is a fun thing. It’s usually my other dog’s poop, so there’s that. Each time I come home, I have to play “Clear the minefield.” As I scoop the love bombs from the living room and family room, I have to explain to him that poop doesn’t belong everywhere. It just shows up everywhere, a little like the Kardashians. Actually, a lot like the Kardashians.
I just found my dog wrestling with my wife’s pantyhose, entangled like King Kong vs. the Giant Octopus. The world is way more fun when EVERYTHING is a toy. Just ask Donald Trump. He’s really just like an unruly puppy. The groomers would have a field day with him, but I’m not sure he’s had his shots.
The other gift from my dogs that keeps giving is the unrelenting supply of shed fur that is now forming tumbleweeds throughout my house, urged to move across the hardwood floors each time a dog comes racing through. I’m ready for the whistle and music that accompanies noon at the OK Corral. I’m tempted to collect it all and sculpt together a new dog. I suppose when you bring these animals into your house, you do have the inevitable roommate conflicts over such things like grooming and hygiene.
But perhaps the biggest decision you’re making when you adopt a dog is to fill your heart with something new and profound.
Just when you thought your heart was already too full to fit another thing in there (like the aforementioned Kim Kardashian’s closet), along comes this little soul who loves you more than anything after just meeting you. Such a creature reminds you that you’re needed, and while that is not an unforeseen thought when you adopt one, it does evoke unforeseen feelings, especially if you already have an old dog who’s through with new tricks and is unmoved or unimpressed with you, having come to know you well. Sort of like teenagers of the same circumstance.
A new dog or puppy needs you in a very real way and that feeling is so fulfilling that it’s hard to imagine life without them only days after they join your family. 
Give me a second. Something got in my eye.
Okay. In short, you may think you’re ready for a puppy. The truth is, he’s probably more ready for you. Or at least he’s ready for your pantyhose.


© 2015 Herb Williams-Dalgart

Gen-X, Future Days of Past Now Gone

I've been to this year’s Coachella music festival. I know who Kid Cudi is. I have a Twitter account. I can use the word, “epic” un-ironically when describing something far less than “epic.” I’m critical of hipsters, which I think may make me worse than a hipster, though I don’t have an ironic mustache or an Amish beard. I listen to Top 40 radio, but will switch over to Hip-Hop or Alternative when I inevitably get bored.
In my mind (and perhaps nowhere else), I’m cool.
And yet, I still haven’t figured out how (or why) to use Instagram. I don’t know what the hell a “bitcoin” is or what I would buy if I had one/them. I still have to catch myself at Starbucks when I try to order a “Large” and I can’t understand why anyone would want to be on a reality TV show or post an online “selfie.” I write checks on a monthly basis to pay some of my bills, even when I have an online option, and I still prefer books to Kindles.
So, I guess, not that cool.
In a weird convoluted amalgamation of past and present, I did “high-five” David Hasselhoff at Coachella. I may have been the only one there who knew who he was. He looked at me. I looked at him, and I said “Hasselhoff.” He high-fived me and gave me a look that seemed to say, “Thank God someone here knows who I am. I can now write off my Botox expense.”
I don’t think of myself as old (any more than Hasselhoff does) but I’m surely not young. I guess I’m stuck between Baby Boomers and Millenials. I’m allegedly part of Generation X (though I’d prefer to think of myself as an X-man, awaiting my mutant powers to kick in).
Gen-X-ers are defined by the truth-telling Wikipedia as those folks born between the early 60’s and early 80’s. Unlike our historical predecessors, our generation will be known as the ones that broke the economy, screwed up the environment, tainted the food chain, endangered the bees, introduced texting, brought in a new Tea Party, and damaged the moral fiber of our children. While some see that as a horrible legacy, I see that as the result of a whole lot of hard work. That much destruction doesn't happen without some effort, people. You really have to put your back into it.
I want to apologize to future generations, but my apology wouldn't be earnest—I’m not sure exactly what we’ve done wrong. If we Gen-X-ers are guilty of anything it’s this: confusion. We don’t know what the hell we’re doing.
There are many things we deal with today that we had no training to handle. Our parents couldn't model parenting for the post-internet generation. They used coal, washed their own cars, saved money in mattresses, whacked away on typewriters, cooked with lard, picked up hitchhikers, used phone books and phone booths and dialed the operator to make a long distance call. They didn't have to navigate cell phones or the Web. In fact, if your parents are like mine, they’re still afraid of both their phone and the Internet. Just try leaving them a voicemail. Yeah, they’ll get that message real soon. It’s no wonder theirs is called the “Silent Generation.” They have nothing to say about this technology or the rules that govern it. Just mention “net neutrality” to one of my parents and you’ll stop the conversation faster than a fart in church. And that's really saying something. They don't go to church and really love a good conversation.
Still, Gen-X-ers should get some credit for ending the telegram and killing VHS rentals, right?
Fast forward to now and our kids can go anywhere they want with anyone they choose and never leave the house (I’m talking the Internet, people). Web Chat, Skype, FaceTime – these were not even part of the vocabulary when I was a kid. Want the best route to avoid traffic—while driving!—they now hold the tool in their hands.
Our kids are not self-conscious. They’re self-assured. They think they deserve to be famous. That’s what comes from the “everyone-gets-a-trophy” policy. But now, everyone gets a reality TV show. Sixteen and pregnant in our parents’ day meant a sudden and long trip overseas, not cameras in your house to capture every moment of the next nine months.
I got an earring when I was 21 and it was scandalous. “What does that mean?” I remember my father saying.
“It means I got an earring.” I replied. I was a smart ass even then.
Now, I see kids with hula hoops through their noses, doorknobs in their earlobes, hooks in their lips, and tattoos on their faces. And they work at the bank! No scandal. Just curious stares from Gen-X-ers like me who are confused. Here’s our big secret kids: we don’t get it. We try, but we don’t.
That doesn't mean we don’t have opinions about what you do. I can’t claim to speak for everyone (or anyone, really), but here’s what you may consider an old person’s rant, a dispatch from the X-men:You haven’t mastered an issue because you saw something about it on the Internet. Awareness is not the same thing as knowledge and understanding. Expertise is not built on a single Google search or a Reddit AMA (look it up, old people). It’s not enough to just have an idea or an opinion, inform it by working on it. For a while. Work pays off. Really. For instance, I’m working on my own opinion right now about whether or not a hole the size of Ohio in your ear is something to be concerned about. So far, I think maybe.You don’t deserve to be famous. You should have a skill or a gift or have done something worthwhile before you are publically recognized. I beg you, do not make a sex tape. I’m just gonna say it. And not because I’m prude or judgey. I just think the faces you’ll make will haunt you forever. In short, if you get famous, you should earn it. And even then, you shouldn't take it for granted. "Teen Mom" isn’t your ticket to stardom. It’s serious and worrisome, and filled with real challenges. Fame is fleeting. Ask MC Hammer. Don’t know him? Exactly. Look him up. Or, just high-five David Hasselhoff.Actions have consequences. The day will come when you have to take the door knob out of your ear or the hula hoop out of your nostril and you’ll look like a droopy, damaged, old man, even if you got that door knob when you were a svelte, 17 year-old girl. These are called consequences. Think about later when you make choices today. Later is like tomorrow, but maybe even a little later. Look it up. I can wait.Have a non-digital backup plan. Electricity is generated by machines and those machines don’t always work. It’s true. Machines sometimes stop. The Internet relies on electricity. If the electricity goes out, and the Internet stops, will you shut down just like the machines? What happens when you unplug? I don’t mean to scare you, and this may sound crazy, but once upon a time—no Internet. I’m just suggesting here that you may want to ponder a backup plan for those times you won’t have Internet access. It could happen. They still print dictionaries. Just saying.
Now, Gen-X-ers don’t have all the answers. Some say we don’t have any of the answers. Though, by now, I’ve surely convinced you that I’m not only cool, I have discovered my mutant power and it’s the ability to offer sage and useful advice for every circumstance. Even if all of the Gen-X-ers don’t have all the answers, we do have a few questions.
We aren't the Silent Generation. Those are your grandparents. We’re the loud ones. Our first question, or maybe our last is, who will take care of us when we’re old and needy? We want you young people—Millenials or Gen-Y’s or Robots or whatever they’ll be calling you—to have the right skills to fix the things we broke. We want you to heal the damage we caused and to put things right that went wrong on our watch. Bring back the bees. We want you to be better, not so self-involved or self-destructive, but visionary and creative and hopeful and fresh. Your tattoos and piercings and attire and music all imply that you are creative and unswayed. You're fearless and energetic and full of ideas. But we also want you to have better lives, more answers than questions, and the respect of your own children.
We’re just saying that all that work might be easier to do without a face full of fishing lures or if you aren't distracted by all that you can see through your ear lobe. Real solutions to real problems are worthy of your own show. And you can still take a selfie when you’re all done.
I might even write you a check.

© 2014, Herb Williams-Dalgart

Lit Central | O.C. post! My recent interview...

Check out my recent interview with Lit Central | O.C. right here:
http://litcentraloc.com/2014/06/05/o-c-author-spotlight-herb-williams-dalgart/

Your chance to win a copy of The French Girl's War from Goodreads!

Hey people!  Here's your chance to win a free copy of The French Girl's War along with a limited edition bookmark. Check it out through my friends at Goodreads! And good luck!!


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Goodreads Book Giveaway The French Girl's War by Herb Williams-Dalgart Giveaway ends April 30, 2014.
See the giveaway details at Goodreads. Enter to win

The French Girl's War - now available!!

Hey fiction fans. It actually happened. I escaped the blogosphere with my new novel, The French Girl's War, now available on Amazon. You may recall, it was honored as a Quarter-Finalist in Amazon's Breakthrough Novel Award contest. Now, it's a real-deal novel and Kindle download that you can own!

For all the news that's fit to print, go to my Website -- www.herbthewriter.com

If you are totally impatient, you can go directly to Amazon now.
http://www.amazon.com/dp/1493570889/ref=tsm_1_fb_lk

And stay tuned for information on how you can earn a FREE bookmark!

Happy reading!

What's in a Name?

Fans of this blog (well, any blog!) know that self-promotion is central to an effective online presence.  Folks that promote themselves effectively have an audience, a fan base, a following.  And, if they provide good content, that following is loyal.  Or maybe it’s just like slowing down to see an accident on the freeway—you just gotta watch the horror unfold.  I’m giving you an out here, people.

Either way, writers often try to make a name for themselves, even if that name is difficult to remember or is uncommon.  Like the name, “Herb.”  Just sayin’.  Sorry, Mom & Dad, it turns out “Herb” wasn’t the “Brittany” of the 60’s.

In today’s day and age, my name is uncommon.  Mostly because the people named, “Herb” are very, very old or very, very dead.  Or, they may be a self-aware, mischievous Volkswagen, but that’s another story.

Nevertheless, our name—whatever our name—is inextricably linked to our identity.  I remember as a kid, wishing my name was David.  That was silly.  David Dalgart?  Yawn.  I don’t think David Dalgart would have had a blog, suffered from cartoon-brain, or been nearly as annoying as I am.  You may have liked him.  Probably shouldn’t have mentioned that.

But, now that I’m an adult (or a passable facsimile of one, governed by that cartoon brain), I’ve grown attached to my name.  It was my grandfather’s name, and he died before I knew him.  So, I owe it to him to carry the name forward with some dignity (okay, I messed that one up).  Do I get a do-over?

Still, it’s my name, too (John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt?  Was he Jewish?).  But I digress.

When I go into a Starbucks, I sometimes play a name game with the barista without realizing I’m playing it.  Note to those of us over 30:  Remember before Starbucks took over our language, before we called cashiers, “baristas” or referred to our medium cup as a “grande”?  Don’t get me started!

The Starbucks game I play goes like this:  I order my drink (venti iced coffee with easy soy) and they ask my name.  I answer, “Herb” and the game begins.

The barista furrows his or her pierced brow and considers their move:


BARISTA THOUGHT:  “Do I pretend I know what that little man just said and write it on his cup with my sharpie or do I ask him to repeat himself?”

I watch this play out over the barista’s face and then cross my fingers.  I hope they don’t ask my name again.

The reason I hope this is that, nine times out of ten, I am rewarded with a funny name on my cup, usually phonetically similar to “Herb” but not usually my name…or for that matter, not usually a name at all.  This makes me laugh because somewhere between their furrowed brow and their sharpie scribble, the barista decided that “Kurb” or “Burb” was my name.

It’s as though the barista said, “Your name, sir, is as nonsensical to me as calling you, ‘Burb.’"


Now, I grant you the barista is often someone with a facial piercing, or droopy ear lobes with doorknobs in them, or geometric hair, or some other outward example of their lack of good judgment.  And, I’m often left with a nagging desire to say, “Your face is more nonsensical to me than the ridiculous name you wrote on my cup."

You’ll be pleased to know I’ve never said that to a barista.  Sometimes my filter does work, but don’t get used to it.  I haven’t.

Nevertheless, this little game is enough to make me pause and wonder how antiquated and irrelevant I am becoming (or at least my name is becoming) in this new Starbucks world.  When the geriatric Herbs are all gone, and the soon-to-be-geriatric Herbs like me are less common than “Burbs” and “Kurbs,” who will be left?  How soon before they come for your name and create a bizarre facsimile on your cup?

I should’ve seen it coming when they replaced the Small, Medium, and Large with the Tall, Grande, and Venti.  They start with your name, and then take your soul.  Of course, you get a hot cup of mediocre coffee in return, but your soul is worth it.

Maybe I should start a new game like this:


ME:  “I’d like a venti iced coffee with easy soy.”

BARISTA:  “What’s your name?”

ME: “Large.”


Then, the barista would be forced to write LARGE on my venti cup—GOTCHA!  A small victory for cups everywhere.  But we could all do it!  Or maybe we can offer other names that will mess up their little system.  Try offering the following names and see what happens.

“You”
[“I have a venti latte for you…”  Mass confusion in the shop.  Who?  You?  No, you!  No, him!]


“Me”
[“I have a double espresso for me…”  Hello, Starbucks customer service?  Yes, you have a barista here that just keeps making coffee for himself.]


“Diabetic Children”
[I have a caramel macchiato for diabetic children…”  What are they doing?  Somebody stop them!]


“Free”
[“I have a tall espresso for free… Oh yes, I am the bringer of chaos.]


“Causing diarrhea”
[Never mind.  You can do this one in your head!]


My point—is there a point?—is that we don’t have to wait for Starbucks or anyone else to take our names or feed us new language.  We can take it back for ourselves.  Or, we can try to make our names count for something.

One piece of advice:  Before you start your blog, get yourself a cup of coffee.



© 2013, Herb Williams-Dalgart

"The French Girl's War" -- Coming Soon!

Hey there, friends and supporters!  Just wanted to let you know that my recently completed novel, “The French Girl’s War,” was not one of the five general fiction submissions to proceed past the quarter-finals in the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award contest.  Still, I’m thrilled to have had such great feedback from Amazon’s editors and to have made it all the way to the quarter-finals with my first attempt in such a competitive contest.  I remain excited to see the book published in the coming months and seeing it both in hard copy and digital download.  I wanted to let you all know how much I appreciate your tremendous support, your downloads, and your positive reviews.   I’ll be sure to keep you posted once the entire book is available.  Thanks again!

The French Girl's War - Quarter-finalist on Amazon's Breakthrough Novel Award contest

Friends and blog followers -- exciting news!  The first 5,000 words of my soon-to-be-published novel, "The French Girl's War" are now available for Kindle download as part of Amazon's Breakthrough Novel Award contest, in which I am currently a Quarter-Finalist.  Enjoy!

Retirement Planning

The Vatican called – there’s a job opening that sounds pretty good.  You can work from home, wear slippers and funny hats, and have throngs of people to help.
 
The last guy in the job actually quit, but we don’t know why.  Maybe the gal that runs Yahoo told him he couldn’t work at home anymore.  She’s like Lucy with the football.

Still, if you’re the lucky job holder, you get as much Italian food as you like.  Housing is covered and you’ll have access to paintings, treasures, and jewels from all over the world.  Just don’t ask how they came to have these things in the first place.
You get a car and driver, security detail for life, and the city you’ll live in will actually be its own country with YOU in charge.  It’s like winning the lottery! 
New law – Lollipop Friday!
The job sounds fun, but seems to be held mostly by really old men.  Maybe it’s a second career or one of those “retirement jobs.”  I think the guy that just quit is gonna become a Wal-mart greeter now.  Very friendly from what I hear.
Last week, when discussing retirement with my wife, she said, “After you retire, don’t you want to work the land?”
….
“Work the land?”
“You know, maybe get a cow, a goat, a sheep…”
This is where I apparently get my “judgey” face that starts arguments.  “What would I do with a cow, a goat, and a sheep?”
“I don’t know.  Make artisanal cheeses?  Hasn’t the idea of working the land always appealed to you?”
“Who do think you married?  No, I can honestly say I’ve never dreamed of working the land.”
“Well I want to work the land.”  Now she gets that frowny face that ends arguments.
 ….
Friends, I don’t think my retirement will go well.  My soon-to-be-revealed spectacular mid-life crisis is brewing in the distance like the hordes of orcs from Lord of the Rings, preparing to invade.  I have no imminent plans to retire, but I’ve been fingering the one ring and wondering if I should just put it on and disappear or make the trek to Mordor like a good Hobbit.
Still, I have plenty of work left to do.  There’s the little matter of my meandering manifesto—still have to write that.  I have to complete my screenplay masterpiece, the long anticipated, “Supermodel Astronaut”—though I’m afraid some fifteen year-old studio executive will want to add smooching vampires or zombies and ruin the whole thing.  Shot across the bow:  it ain’t gonna happen, kid. 
Of course, I will simply take my revenge when I inevitably win the Oscar for my original screenplay, “Ninja Leprechauns” or wave around my Pulitzer (in my mind it’s a flag that reads, “Pulitzer") for my hard-hitting novel, “Munchkins Cry, Too,” following the painful abuse and struggles of Hollywood’s mistreated little people.  Spoiler: Glinda was NOT a good witch.
Simply put, I still have too much to do to consider retirement or those go nowhere Vatican job openings.  Though, I’m reminded of the old saying, “Life is like a roll of toilet paper.  The closer you get to the end, the faster it seems to go.”  I think that was either Nietzsche or Shakespeare.  Not sure how much of my roll remains, but I’m determined to use it wisely…. And slowly. 
Then again, maybe I’ll work the land.
 
© 2013, Herb Williams-Dalgart