Fantasma: The Ghost Dog

Rounded a bend on 24E today and witnessed that good old Devil Mountain looking snowy and terrible. Every once in awhile I read about some puritanical Christian losers trying to change it's name - guten lucht. The ice seems to run in my veins even as I write, translucent & noisy shards numbing and fracturing away down blood gulch #729. Maybe that's due to the fact I decreased the night time thermostat setting another five degrees. Feeling cold feels good as long you keep a postive mindset, over matter, real banshees wear only short sleeves in the non-mountainous areas of Cali, maybe a brightly dyed wool serape when the fog gets nippy. Just imagine it's hot out and this is the super good AC blasting, so refreshing and good for keeping perishables fresh (that's me). The boy's been asking about the snow a lot lately. Next season he'll be old enough to take the ski lessons I never got while I take the snowboard lessons I never got. Why the hell else do we both have AWD vehicles? Rhetorical of course, unless the answer is "Yes".

Found out one recent morning when they showed up unexpectedly and the dogs weren't kennelized that the team of concrete workers that poured the pad for our new home office had a special name for my big black dog - Fantasma: The Ghost Dog. So proud I about cried. That dog's got soul (and steals souls) for shore, and teeth, and eyes more human than human, like Rob Zombie but better. Tonight when I came home all tired and somewhat sombered out I went to the garage where the Ghost Dog dwells, got down on my knees and just hugged the 120-lb beast. She knew just how to chill, but of course, and felt so soft & warm in the frigid air, on her dirty faded blue rug, on the concrete floor. Lucky me; bless her big black heart.

Had a hard time putting the child to sleep this evening. First he insisted on "Sister's bed", which is his own idea of where his new sister is likely to sleep, actually the guest mattress on the floor that I sleep on each night due to snoring and other considerations. That cuteness won him at least another 10 minutes, and then he must just save the last crap each night until after the final lights out, cause that modus operandi plays itself out real regular. By the time I cleaned all that up my back was too tired to lug him up the stairs again, so various "Go to bed" type cajoling ensued as I loaded my new "Essential Johnny Cash, 1955-1983" discs my brother Matt & his wife gave me into my machine and tried to get back to wage-slaving. He strolled up, picked up the case for disc one, and asked "Who's that?". I told him who and asked if he wanted to hear some. Of course he did, and said "Let's dance" right away when "Hey Porter" started kicking. We were singing the Hey Porter part together from half-way through, both learning together, bloody alchemy. I explained to him that it was a song about trains, porters on trains that is, to which he said with out-of-breath gusto, as soon as it ended "That's a good song". Momma was getting miffed about the hour by then, and I still had a couple hours of work left, but when your toddler invites you to a Johnny Cash dance party at 10PM on a school night I'd advise strict attendance. He couldn't let it end there of course, and quickly found a pencil with one of those purple hairy head things on the eraser end that has eyes and gets crazy hair when you spin it. Very fun, and he didn't even scrawl anything on the wall or try to gouge my eyes. The boy's growing up I tell you.