The Perfect Song Blog

I had stay overnight in Harrisburg, PA for a meeting about a teleconference I’m participating in.  When I left New York State it was six degrees with a wind chill of 15 below zero.
I figured it would be warmer in Harrisburg which is about 140 miles south.  It wasn’t.
I stayed in a unique, 20-story place that used to be offices and was converted to suites and apartments.   An elderly black woman passed by with the air of a person who lived there.   Down the hall in the activity room, a guy in a wheelchair was watching television.  The only thing that distinguished it from a nursing home was the registration desk where a young woman was listening to a white-haired lady who had all the time in the world.  I registered and found my room on the sixth floor.  It was spacious and borderline-but-not-quite dumpy.
The wind was howling outside.  At 5:30 I took the rickety elevator back to the lobby.  A young black guy who appeared to be both a doorman and janitor, leaned on the registration desk talking to Patricia, who registered me.
“Where’s a good place to eat?”
“A lot of people like Garrison’s,” Patricia said.  “It’s just up the block.”
“In walking distance,” I said.
“The janitor-doorman nodded.  “Sure is if you don’t mind the cold.”
“I’m from New York State,” I said.  “This is nothing.”  I would later regret this statement.
The janitor-doorman smiled.  “I’ll show you how to get there.”  We stepped outside.  “Go up this block, take a left and at the end of that block take a right.”
“Thanks!”  I wasn’t sure if I should tip him, so I didn’t.
I started out.  It was windy but not bad.   Garrison’s is a small, dark tavern with lots of hardwood and good food.  When I finished eating I stepped outside — into a blizzard.  The snow was coming down sideways.  The sidewalk was white and slippery.  By the time I’d walked one block I was moving directly into the wind.  My hands were frozen.  My eyes hurt.  It had to be 20-below with the wind chill.
By the time I stumbled up to the lobby’s glass doors, I was covered with snow.  It wasn’t layered.  It was embedded.  As I walked in the janitor-doorman looked up and almost doubled over laughing.  Patricia behind the desk laughed too, even though she was very professional otherwise.
“Man, you have changed colors!” The doorman-janitor said between bouts of laughter.  Patricia was doing her best not to laugh hard.  Like I said, she was a professional.
“I’m laughing because I told you it was in walking distance,” the d-j said.  I nodded.  “And you said you were from New York State!”
“That was a mistake I will not make again,” I said.  “I thought it was supposed to be warmer in Harrisburg.”
Patricia disappeared and returned with a towel.  It was a nice gesture that made us for a moment feel like family sharing a joke.
And the joke was me.
I pressed the button on the rickety elevator and stepped inside as the two of them waved.  Janitor-doorman was still laughing.  I had made his night.
I knew I was the star of a new story that he would be telling for years to come.
I entered my suite, fixed a vodka and tonic, and as the wind howled, vowed I would never again intimate that I was some hardy dude from New York State.

Dog lovers, I have had a breakthrough!
A little background. When I brought Tyler, the Australian Blue Heeler, home, he was about four months old. He was house-broken in about four days. Heelers are a smart breed.
It took Zeus, the German Shepherd, a little longer.
So when Tristan came along at Christmas, a cute black and gray blob of fur, I figured he’d be house-broken in a week.
Two weeks later, Leigh and I were still working on him, failing miserably. He’d run down to the front door and poop. He peed anywhere he happened to be. We were buying paper towels by the gross at Sam’s Club just to keep up with the large pee puddles.
We watched him, of course, but he’s a sneaky little guy and as soon as we did something like, say, blink, he’d pee. I’d take him outside and run him around, and he’d pee. We’d come back into the house and he’d finish peeing.
How can one puppy process so much water?
Slowly, he began going to the sliding glass door in the kitchen and we would literally run to it because as soon as he gave us the signal, he also peed. We had about 2.5 seconds to respond.
This morning he trotted to the sliding glass door, scratched on it and sat waiting. I was very suspicious. This was too good to be true. It was a trick. I opened the door, he walked out — and peed.
I swear I almost got teary-eyed. We were one step further down the road of progress.
Do you remember when your kids were finally potty trained and you had these really mixed feelings of relief because the end of diapers was in sight, yet your heart was heavy because it meant they were growing up?
That’s how I felt.
I’m not kidding.
The sadness doesn’t come close to the joy of not having to go through another two dozen rolls of paper towels.
January 20, 2007, 10:06 a.m. A moment to remember.
Oh, by the way, here’s some updated shots of Tristan “The Devil Dog.”

Want to sleep till 9 a.m. Tristan the Australian blue heeler pup, (nicknamed “the Devil Dog) wakes up at 7 a.m. Tyler, the adult Aussie, barks at Tristan in his crate until I get up. Throw Tyler and Zeus the German Shepherd, out, lay down on couch and try to sleep.
The dogs scratch at the door and bark. I get up and take them out to play.
Breakfast at 11 a.m.
Spend 45 minutes making cabbage soup, one of my favorite recipes. Someday I’ll share it.
Take dogs on long walk to creek. Tristan poops once and Zeus poops twice (you’ll see the importance of this lateer) Get some neat shots of Tristan. Back at house, Eat some leftovers. Take Marianne with me for errands. Stop at Dunkin Donuts for eclair for her and coffee for me. Then to grocery store. I push her in her wheelchair around Tops. She hold basket while I load things.
People are always very polite with old people in wheelchairs, even if they’re in a hurry or pissed off at the world. They know it’ll be their turn too soon and they’re after good karma. Run to Petco to pick up dog and cat food, all of which are too expensive.
Over to Barnes & Nobel to pick up new Mac Life magazine and Newton book on Life Between Lives.
Come home to check emails and websites. Tristan’s suddenly energized and lives up to his nickname. He scampers into the studio, out into the hallway, stops long enough to rip wrapping paper to shreds. Comes in and pulls out my computer magazines. I say “no” about 150 times. He bites my hand. I slap his nose. We go back and forth: he tests; I discipline. He gets mad and tests some more. I discipline.
I win . . . for the moment.
Home. Produce two radio spots. Eat supper. Leigh and I clean up kitchen. Go downstairs wanting nothing more than to read and nap. As soon as I sit down the infernal dryer buzzer goes off. I swear the moment we paid for the dryer, someone programmed the damned thing to always go off either at supper or when I’m trying to read and nap. Take care of dryer.
Tristan comes down and bends his body into a hump. That means he’s getting ready to poop. By the time you see a dog hump, the poop is already being delivered. Grab him and toss him out, then spend 10 minutes cleaning up. As soon as I sit down again, I see a spot where he’s peed. . . a lot. Clean up pee.
Sit down to read Mac Life. Ten minutes later, dozing off. It is bliss. I’m in that half dream state that I crave. Images flow around lazily and my whole body is relaxed.
Upstairs a dog drops a really large bone on the tile floor which sounds like a test bomb. I jump high enough that there is space between me and the chair. Every nerve is on “fight or flight” mode.
Give up. Work on Mac to try to figure it out after 20 years of working solely on PCs.
Marianne wants to go to bed. We watch a Lucy Show. She goes to bed.
Toby the cat comes in and eats. Leigh comments on how well he’s eating these days after being sick. She leaves to work on a TV commercial. Toby comes out to where I’m sitting with the Mac and throws up everything he’s eaten.
I clean it up, fix a drink and say farewell to Sunday. . . and write this post.