1. Almost every morning, as I take my dog Dot to her personal Arcadia/shit spot, I pass a portly man lugging a bucket of rocks on a luggage cart. He wears his pants high on his stomach and keeps his sweater tucked in. He never meets my eyes though I tried for several months until I stumbled upon him at one end of the beach taking a dump. Just like Dot! It IS a magical spot. On clear days, the early morning sun floods the bay so the light could be skimmed off the gold-tipped chop. On more mercurial days, when the sun dips and bobs behind the racing clouds, the whitewater bubbles like peroxide on silver water. I take off Dot’s leash and she dashes across the grass to sniff the bench, the trash can, the path to the water. She waits for me impatiently and when I’ve narrowed our distance to an acceptable few meters, she runs away again, to fish for seaweed or hunt for sticks. At some point, she interrupts her quest with a squat. I hurry along behind her, remove all evidence and the morning goes on.
A few months back, Dot took a left where she usually takes a right and I followed her onto a narrow stretch of beach mostly covered by craggy volcanic rock. It was in those crags that I spotted the rock collector dropping his own patties on the pebbles. I didn’t back away; I about-faced and pretended I’d never seen his cumulous cloud ass hovering low to the ground. Later, I discovered that the rock collector is responsible for the scattered jellybeans you’ll find any afternoon in front of the Lyall Bay Surf Life Saving Club. I’m not sure who eats more of the candy: kids who sneak away from supervision to collect them from the footpath, dogs who strain against their leashes, or birds.
2. A chat about poop on the beach naturally leads me to think about Rick Santorum. His Frothiness has let his stinky dookies fly lately. Still, this windmill abuser gets votes. Can someone explain this to me, please? We’ve learned that he believes college is strictly for indoctrination. We’ve learned that JFK’s rational response to worries about his Catholic faith makes him nauseous. Standing in front of a sign that says “Americans for Prosperity,” Santorum distinguishes himself as a complete nincompoop with little apparent understanding for syllogisms. Everyone knows that countries are super prosperous (and peaceful and stable and magnets for industry) when their populations are mainly illiterate. Who among us isn’t interested in checking out South Sudan for its killer quality of life? Santorum says Obama’s goal of getting more Americans into universities– because, Santorum says, “he wants to remake you in his image”– is nothing more than indoctrination by liberal professors. Santorum wants to make jobs, he says, so parents can make their children in their image. Because everyone knows, parents never want their kids to do better than they did. That would be so embarrassing. Stupid uppity kids. (Oh, hey, Santorum, remember 2006? The NYTimes does.) I won’t even touch the religion thing except to say that I like (though I admit I didn’t “like” it when I saw it on Facebook) the silly meme going around comparing religion and penises. It’s true they both belong snugly contained when in public.
3. You ever been to a blog carnival? Here’s your chance. Put on your stilts and bedazzle that horsehair because here’s a carnival inside your computer. No ride tickets necessary. No meth-addicted hawkers with crooked teeth. No fried butter drizzled with peanut butter sauce and sprinkles. In fact, you can put your Purel away. Wait! Before you cry into that ancient stuffed whale some dude gave you for riding the Twister with him and not barfing then or when he kissed you, there are a whole bunch of links at this carnival, including links to Hinemoana Baker, whose work I totally dig. One link is mine and it’ll take you right back here. And how about those pretty pictures? So go give it a try and tell me you don’t like carnivals on blogs more than carnivals on bogs, where half the rides sink into the soil to ensure that you or someone will definitely get stuck upside down while the acne-faced teenager in charge of the on/off switch alternately licks butter off his fingers and whistles at slutty girls.