Moving Backwards

This post brought to you by Rural Route 1 'ip Balm and Popcorn, The Popcorn I'm Eating Right Now

So this is what a horse camp looks like. I see, it's a plug and hitch. Is the outlet for Electric Horses, or possibly Electric Sheep? Which picnic table is for the gastrically challenged? Do horses picnic?

Where is everyone?


(Flashback)
The same creature which horse rumped me in Sparta, man handled (horse handled) my friend's smooth coated fox terrier. After a long weekend on the Sparta farm, his owner brought him in for canine acupuncture.
One of the funniest images I can picture which I haven't actually seen, is Chico the terrier, super snout and all, getting cranial acupuncture ("I've only had cranial acupuncture." Place the quote and win a postcard. Really, I'm on a pc hunt. You should like that, James, "Be vewy vewy quiet, I'm hunting hippies." ).

This horse, picnicing somewhere near the campground, reminded me of those downtown squirrels. Bastards. It was all hooves and bad attitude. A neighbor and I had a theory that the squirrels which terrorized us outside of our Ingersoll apartment, had a stash of lost socks and laundry next to a pile of weed and government cheese. They stored it in the yellow garage next door which no one seemed to enter.
Or more significantly, leave.

My Rural Route 1 caramel corn and cashews dipped in creamy fudge, originally meant for my parents, would have been squirrel jacked before I reached the stoop. The little freaks would have snatched the bag, then taunted me like I was sitting in the back of the Park St. bus (childhood trauma).
My mother has been more critical than usual since she's been sick, and I didn't want her slamming my C.C. Winkle. Somewhere between Montfort and Verona I'd become protective of the fudge corn, and decided to keep it for myself. They got the Rainbow, which she didn't like.
Sigh.
Let me put that first statement in perspective, saying my mother is more critical than usual is like saying Cub's fans have been less tolerable than usual. No? Okay, the tornado was breezier than usual. Darth Vader seemed in a worse mood of late.

So I kept the C.C. Winkle and am still eating it a week after my birthday (two days after my Steven's birthday party). God I'm fat. Chomp, mmffph. Use the fork, Luke.
The popcorn itself is smooth coated, only with fudge, not fur. There's a sunny crunch of thin caramel just a breath after the lavish first bite of cashew and fudge. The fudge compliments, not over powers, the brittle layer of caramel, and the soft nuts (ha) only make the experience more decadent. I got two large bags of RR1 corn (and a post card) for something like four bucks, and the cashier seemed to apologize for the price.
Still sampling their wares during the bagging of the corn, the swiping of the plastic, and the heading for the door, I was like Beatrix Kiddo in the back of Buck's Pussy Wagon willing my big toe to leave the store.

Considering I spent the day tromping around the likes of this, I guess I deserved a little sugar.
Now, "Wiggle your big toe."
Photo of Gabe and me by Tammi

Horse Dancing

This post brought to you by the Disappointing Flavor of Now and Later Soft Taffy Candy,
The Soft Candy That's Hard To Eat

Before stumbling across Eunice's, the Crawford County GOP, and emergency vehicle traffic, I followed this sign

Horse Dancing NEXT 2 MILES.
I was bleary eyed, road weary, trail tired, and knew it was time to turn around. But I couldn't. Even when I saw what my Sox visor had done to my hair.

Frightening, no?
While in search of the six legged mambo (does that sound dirty or is it just me?), I remembered a few equestrian moments from my past.
There was the time that even though the "tamest horse we got" ran away with me on its back as I screamed "Whoa, please, whoa," it was better than getting stuck with the "farting horse" like my grade school chum Kim Hocking.
Everyone was too busy laughing to help me. Including the horse. Apparently unfamiliar with the term rein it in, it tried to bite me when I attempted to do so.

Almost every road sign intrigued me. Did the horses dance with neckless bald men, then camp? Were scorched cans of beans eaten with giant sporks around the campfire? Were there farting horses, banned from the ranch due to excessive bean-eating flatulence like the scene in Blazing Saddles?

I was getting closer to an answer. Wait, did this mean horses park there, or is it a park for horses? Did they have horsie swings? Oh no, they were banned in '95 (bastards) and I was regressing.
Then there was the time I was horse rumped against a stall in Sparta like I was in the trash compactor scene from Star Wars. Talk about buns of steel. A horse has more power in its ass than Mariusz Pudzianowsk on PCP.
You da man, Mariusz.
The Tootsie Fruit Rolls were out of reach as a defensive move, and all I had were these lousy Now and Laters I'd brought along for a photo op. One which could have turned a cloudy frigid day into a hot steaming nightmare. Less on that now, more later.
I say lousy, because the fine people at Now and Later struck out this time.
Struck out looking.

They're too soft to be considered chewy. The Banana ones are on the point of disintegration, and almost impossible to remove from the wrapper. Although I was initially eating the Banana Softs like Jeff Goldblum eats sugar. My body must have been craving Yellow 5.
The Apple and Cherry squares come closer to classic Now and Laters, but STILL.
Maybe I saw horses camping, maybe I didn't. I never saw the itinerant chocolate lab again, but I followed him until I ran into this

And Across The Street

From Eunice's was this fine example of the state of the union. It explained a lot.

Tootsie Fruit Rolls were the candy of choice for my birthday sojourn. Lovely, but not enough sugar to prevent me from heading down a busy one way street against traffic just as an ambulance was speeding toward me.
It was going in the right direction.

I was chasing a dog that was crossing the streets of Prairie du Chien like it had an agenda, and I was afraid he'd head into the even busier main drag.
Maybe he was looking for the Crawford County GOP headquarters. Yes, I'm assuming the dog was both male, and Republican.

I had to drive up a steep green lawn, still facing the wrong way, to avoid becoming a headline in the local bi-weekly news shopper. Never found the damn dog. But I was elated to find the Republican Party living the high life across the street from Eunice's.

Signage Sunday

Let's hear it for Eunice

Wigged Out Wednesday

I know someone's looking over my shoulder.

Bring it on.

But it will have to wait until I get back.

After I get skunked at the pump.

And pack a lunch.

And take off.
Will keep you posted. Get it? Posted.

Morose Monday

My neighbors are jerks. They smoke so much it comes through the walls. The other night I dreamt I was trapped in a house fire. This morning it invaded my emergency what's the point of getting out of bed bubble bath.

I ate my last DOT.

No home games this Saturday, so keep on driving.

Another birthday coming up. Doom. What should I do:
Vision Quest, Nitty Gritty, Look For Snakes Down By The River.
Look for snakes living in vans down by the river?
I'm leaning toward snakes.

Maybe I'll just stay in bed.

Yogurt DOTS

I've been rat holing Yogurt DOTS for over a week now, and thought a college Lacrosse game on a so-called April afternoon was as good a place as any to shake them out. 46 degrees my frozen tundra. The wind alone could freeze DOTS to a metal railing. Especially if you licked them first.

Yogurt DOTS come in Orange, Blackberry, Lemon-Lime, Strawberry, and Banana flavors. The lackluster banana blended in with the orange, so it missed the photo op. Or maybe it got blown out onto the field. Who knows what's going on at a Lacrosse game anyway. Certainly not I. It looks like a bunch of guys smacking each other across the knees with sticks. And then the game is over. They're like loan sharks with cute legs.

Everyone who tried the Yogurt DOTS liked them.

Nitro Nanci and I liked the orange the best. Even though she's holding green. Did I mention how cold it was?I've been eating them non-stop as I post, first biting off their little heads, then lining them up and finishing off their vanilla "yogurt" bottoms. There's a kind of Hannibal Lecter/Oreo Cookie thing going on and suddenly I crave fava beans sprinkled with Chianti flavored cookies.
I ate them into an overall feeling of self-loathing. But that's okay because it is yogurt after all. Well, no, no it isn't. Not a drop. Not a scosh.
There is, however, a handy DOT DROP on the side and a movie quiz on the back.
Don't eat Vanilla blanks while watching Vanilla blank or you'll upchuck the Vanilla yogurt blanks into your Vanilla colored blank.
Blank, I'm out of DOTS.

Sweeter Than Candy

Her first time out she got it. No edging down the middle of the ramp like a wuss. She was smart and fast and brave. Miss Vickers was a quick study who saw her role as head of household rather than dog. She could have claimed deductions.
The first time I met the old girl, we hit it off. I didn't know Phil and Karen had a dog, let alone this dog. It was early in the morning and I wasn't getting up early in the morning then. (Then, who am I kidding? You could dangle Brad Pitt on a sugar coated stick full of hot morning buns and I wouldn't get up until the sun was warm.) No loud barks from Miss Vickers that morning, just a wagging tail built to carry a Black Hawk.
Whoppa whoppa whoppa.
She kept running around the house—through the living room, back through the dining room, stopping at her water dish for a few sips of water and a crunch of food, then another lap through the house until she landed at my feet.
Whoppa whoppa whoppa.

She must have seen the expression on my face when I walked through the door and saw her that first time. You know the look. Remember when you thought your parents forgot your sweet sixteen until you saw a shiny new Boxster RS 60 Spyder wrapped in a giant bow in the driveway?
Me neither. My old man snagged me a swamp green dodge in a fixed raffle when I was in my twenties. That was cool.
I was elated, Vixen was elated. Phil had had another black lab named Luci (short for Lucifer) when our families lived next door to each other back when Michael Jackson still had a nose. Luci used to sneak through the window of my parked '68 mustang waiting to be taken to the park, then pop up from the back seat once we hit the Beltline. She loved water so much she once jumped out of the car window after sniffing Lake Wingra from the top of Park St. Crazy dog.
That was the first time I was in a doggie ER.
Vixen (that's her given name, which I think Vince spells "Vixon") was born on or around Christmas. They got her the same winter Bug was born.

Maybe that's why she loved snow so much. I remember one winter, nothing like this one, when there were only a few patches of dirty ice crystals left on the front lawn and she tore out the door (which she could open with her nose) to roll in them. I can think of worse things to roll in.

The first time I got to take care of Miss Vickers, we both got into shape and one of us was fit enough to jump from a ramp into the water.
"Don't go painting her nails or anything," Phil said.
As if.

So I put away my scarves and bottles of shimmering nail polish and took her to the ramp.
The ramp. The wonder of it all. Sure she was a great swimmer, but she'd somehow missed the whole air dog craze.
Have you ever seen pure joy warmed up and poured over fur?
We don't need no stinkin' Porsches.
Whoppa whoppa whoppa.

A tennis ball in any condition, ground to stand on, a full water dish, and a pocket full of treats is all she needed. Water to swim in? No! Bonus. And her people of course. Man, she loved them all. She was responsible for bringing me closer to family I hadn't seen in years. Then she made me part of hers. She wouldn't have it any other way.
Pet my lily white ass.
No, wait, I didn't mean pet my—never mind.

I was ready to file a story on Irish dancing Monday night, it was either three hours late or four-and-a-half hours early, depending on how you look at it. I'd just hung up with a final source, went back to make sure I had the right files attached (riveting stuff isn't it?) so I wouldn't accidentally send my editor a list of Your Momma jokes instead of 450 words on Celtic dance and a sidebar.
The phone rang again, and it was Phil. I started yammering how I wanted to go out for a beer since I was three hours late or four hours early with the article. He stopped me. Then I had a pen in my hand and was frantically taking notes on an already full piece of scrap paper. I looked down at it and didn't recognize the words. He called back two more times and not until he used the word "Brewery" did I know where they were taking Miss Vix. (No, they weren't taking her to a brewery.)

She'd stopped breathing and Karen had intubated her with a turkey baster. Karen drove ahead with Vix and Vince. Phil had made a gurney with Vixen's blanket, then followed with Bug. That was the last time Roscoe saw his Miss Vickers. The roles had reversed in recent weeks, and he began watching over her.

Red eyes, counting cat versus dog pictures (4 cats, 3 dogs, dog clock in the bathroom). Trying to be funny with a joke I stole from Seth Meyers about "total cat replacement."
They finally wheeled her out. She was drugged and tried to get up from her worn blanket and metal gurney. She knew us. Somehow she managed to give me kisses. Forever the mom, she knew I needed them. She knew I was the wuss edging down the middle of the ramp.

Decisions had to be made, a family discussion. And then there's the matter of the bill. I just kept petting her and kissing her head. It wasn't my place to say anything. Two helpless creatures.
They didn't know why she stopped breathing and were going to give her a tracheal wash to find out more. They'd see if surgery was needed, but neither Karen nor Phil wanted that. Chances were she wouldn't pull through. Was it an infection, was it viral? I remember when they wheeled her out to us, she reminded me of royalty. The dog queen. When they wheeled her away from us the room drained.

I was shopping for a combo DVD/VHS player for my parents (one that I could use) at Best Buy when Phil called me the next day.
"Vixen's gone," he said.
He went to pick her up and bring her home, hoping that prednisone would work better this time. No sooner had they said how good she was doing when a doctor came into the outer room and said she stopped breathing. In the end, they put her to sleep rather than have her keep going through the trauma. There were no answers for her, just pain and uncertainty.
When I talked to Nitro Nanci last night, she asked me if we were having a wake. I said "no," but Phil, Bug, and I had gotten out in the fresh air of a little league field, and were able to come back and tell stories. Our family is good at that.

Bug talked about how Vixen one-upped Roscoe by refusing to sit in the way back seat. The younger dog had claimed the second seat, the one closer to humans with junk food. Vixen couldn't manage to get in either of the back seats, yet somehow, had the strength and grace of a gazelle when hopping up front.
Roscoe has been lost like Flight 815. He's a Tennessee Williams play. He's Blanche in Streetcar. He didn't move from the spot Miss Vickers normally inhabits all morning. He temporarily forgot what he's supposed to do with a Frisbee (like Picasso forgetting what to do with a brush, Chong forgetting what to do with a pack of Abadies).
Yeah, I'm the wuss, and this is how I'm going to remember her:

LavaBalls

Gimbal's LavaBalls are one of those hot candies you've probably passed dozens of times at the Walgreens to get to the Snaps. Mmm, Snaps.
Not quite an Atomic Fireball, not quite a Cinnamon Gummy Bear, the affable little balls are pretty and hot. Yes, they're pretty hot. As when drinking 151, have a glass of water standing by.
I like the crunchy coat, which has a well proportioned thickness and breaks like a gumball. The shell can be dissected (if bitten just right) to reveal that the hot stuff lies more in the red jelly than the speckled shell. They remind me of those sour cherry balls you buy in bulk. Only they're neither sour nor cherry. But they do have a bit of marketing on the back of the bag talking about cinnamon eruptions, fire eaters, and can you stand the heat. It shows someone's trying.
Bonus: They're gelatin free, gluten free, dairy free, egg free, nut free, and pareve (neither meat nor dairy for those keeping a kosher kitchen).
Not a bad choice for something different, and it's a good bet you haven't had them in a while or ever.

Procrastination Sunday: National Licorice Day

The sugar coated Patti from Candy Yum Yum! pointed out that Saturday was National Licorice Day, and I missed it. Since I treat every day as if it's National Licorice Day I guess it's okay.
I was at Nitro Nanci's (cousin and Dish reviewer) eldest daughter's wedding.

"You know it's National Licorice Day, Mike."

"At least we'll be able to catch the Cub's game."

So it was drain the half barrels of beer and empty the wine bottles then lose your cell phone and car keys because you were too drunk to realize you were looking in someone else's coat pockets and your old ass knees cracked so loudly when you shouted "a little bit softer now" they could be heard over music pumped out on the dance floor like Spotted Cow until we drained the kegs dry Day.

A chewy gooey Procrastination Sunday to all.

Dashboard Dining Key

1. Chocolate
2. Soft Drinks
3. Jelly & Cream-filled donuts
4. Fried Chicken
5. Tacos
6. Chili
7. Juicy Hamburgers
8. Any Barbecued Food
9. Hot Soups
10. Coffee
Once again, the inimitable Chrissy got the most right. She may be tired of Madtown postcards, but she's got another one coming.

Dashboard Dining

Can you name the 10 Most Dangerous Foods to Eat While Driving?
If you can name at least *five in order, I'll consult our panel of sugar fiends, I mean experts, and we'll send you something really stupid from our favorite Web site, Stupid.com.
If you bother to look it up and name all 10 in any order, you get a post card. Maybe. If I feel like it.
Good luck, you have until Friday, April 11.
*According to Madison & Dane County Public Health