A Thief, Sting, a Lady, McGraw and Botti . . . have ear will travel

Hi guys, Tink here, and you're totally . . . No where man? Just getting musical after the John Lennon Lithographs. Since I'm totally a literary character the term applies to me much more absolutely. 


This summer has been a musical happening for the SOG (sick old guy) and me. I've been totally trying to give him some bounce to his step. Wished they sold pogo stick insoles at Dr. Scholls. Which starts you thinking with all that work and experimentation on shoes and human's feet, what must Dr. Scholl's house smell like. Especially if he brings his work home. Maybe his wife would rather he brought home the bacon, smells more appetizing.
When he shakes your hand, does he leave a foot odor behind? Can you get athlete's hand, or hoof in mouth disease, as is virulently present on this blog? 
Instead of using a Swifter Mop on the floors, does he use a wet odor eater insert on a shoe horn? Do the meals stink like the inside of a humid human shoes? Filet of Sole anyone? Baked I'll Ask Her why the food is so tough, but I don't want to be a heel. That be the sole of ingratitude for a free meal. Something smells fishy to me and we need to stay focused on feet.  
Is the house air freshener an anti-fungal spray? Is it heaven for their canine where he can tear anything and still think it is an old shoe? No Fido, stop chewing the piano, it's not that old or worn out. In fact, its foot pedals are bare, not a insole in sight.
The vaudeville routine is not over yet. Too bad huh?
For exercise, does Dr. Scholl's pound the shoe leather? Was his favorite Jockey Willie Shoemaker? His favorite newspaper Cartoon - Shue? When there are bats in his belfry does he tell them to shoo? And here is a fitting shoe ending to this horrible haberdashery hoedown: when the ghost of his friend Foo haunts his house, resting on his couch, - this one is a really bad - when the Foo sits is he aware of it? Something are totally better left unsaid.


You don't have to sing my praises, because all summer, SOG - ole Mad Mutt - and I have been visiting musical happenings. Mutt is musically challenged for any tune written after 1955, except for the Beatles, the Stones, Hendrix, and the Doors. Oh and maybe Janis Joplin. They all have someone who is gratefully dead, but SOG isn't playing with Gerry Garcia and that moribund group yet. Me, I'm musically ignorant of Brenda Lee, Lesley Gore, Bobby Vinton, and to me no one should be named after a large yellow taxi, Chubby Checker.   


We started out with Sting and the Philharmonic at the Garden State Arts Center. The summer had barely begun, and flowers were blooming, but still old Mutt calls one of my favorites Stink. He says he doesn't like the register of his voice, "Male altos upset him. They remind him of the male choirs from Italy." He means twenty year old castratos that don't yet shave and sing in registers higher than the Empire State building. 


While Sting aka Stink is not that bassally challenged, Mutt offered to buy him a pair of woofers, to place in his joc so he could masquerade as something other than a capon. The SOG complained during his performance at the Arts Center that his raspy cat mating calls made him scratch around his male parts ("just taking inventory"). Not an exciting itch, but the kind of itch you get after sitting on foreign (not well cleaned) toilets. "That's the type of crab I don't enjoy steams, or boiled." He absolutely thinks that is funny. Not! 


Next he surprised me with a tailgate party and concert at the Arts Center. It was called Thunderfest. Monmouth county's Country Music Station W-eat-my-grits sponsored it. We didn't know there were totally so many hillbillies in Monmouth County. When we tried to buy tickets at the window that afternoon, we were told it was absolutely sold out. However, we lucked out, and bought three tickets wholesale from a person in a Land Rover. No they weren't scalped, in fact they were sold for under the face price. Sometimes, when the Foo sits you are aware of it. So we tailgated and sat on the lawn.


Mutt wanted to know "whats with all the girls wearing denim/leather mini skirts, cowboy hats, Stetsons no less, draw string shirts or bustiers, and boots to the knee in the soft wet muddy grass of the lawn?" It looked like a teenage dominatrix convention without the riding crops or whips. A few may have been hiding handcuffs. 


Yelling "Yahoo," and "You tell'em Tim" during the performances? They even yelled "you tell'em Tim" during Lady Antebellum and Love and Theft when Tim McGraw wasn't in the county, much less on stage. The beer stands sold liter sized cans and everyone was chugging and lugging. I think the Coors Light people made out real good. You betcha. The stand attendants kept saying, "Y'all come back now ya hear." 


Oh wowzers, I've been infected with countritis encephalitis - I'm speaking in tongues, country tongue. It's a disease associated with a Fecal Encephalopathy, known as shit for brains. There is a very close association between the two, and one diagnosis almost always accompanies the other. It causes a drawl in your y'all and grows a stalk of alfalfa between y'all's front teeth. It is often associated with a dumb shit-eating smile.  :) 


Oh my god. The antidote is reading anything. Even the label of the beer can held by the redneck that bit you. Pardon me while I read a Chekhov short story. . . .   


201 Chekhov short stories
A Lady with the Dog


I'm like absolutely back. Let's, like totally, hope I don't have a spontaneous relapses and become incommunicado due loss of vocabulary, while holding onto the rifle in the rack by the rear window of my Ford pick'em up truck. 

Is there an antibiotic for this disease? Like Urbanicillen? Cosmopolitanomycin? Culturisporin? Is there a Northern-pharmacist in the house?     


Back to music and concerts. I'll make a concerted effort to stay musical. 
Love and Theft had a great drummer and their songs rocked, especially for a country group. Lady Antebellum has won an Grammy and they were worth the price of admission. By the time Tim McGraw got on stage, everyone was tired. The girls with their boots hung off the tattooed arms of the guys with cargo shorts at half-mast exposing the top half of their boxers and sometimes the crack where their brains resided. Of course, their brains are cracked, no one would look or act that way if they had a quarter wit about them. These urban guido cowboys had already hung their wife beater undershirts on their belts and stood bare-chested in the shadows of the lawn, like some gorilla in the mist. All the while wearing cowboy hats, because they were probably bald. The hat ain't no brain protector, they'd have to sit on the hat for that function. 


I'm sorry I insulted gorillas. They aren't dumb enough to drink till you-wobble-when-you-walk, and then try to drive home from a parking lot filled with other silver backs in a similar condition. 


We left before bumper cars started. Tim McGraw looked and sounded like he envied our early departure. He sung half the lyrics to his songs and then pointed the mike at the audience and let them sing the rest. He barely broke a sweat. I guess he was saving himself for the after party, with some of the left over dominatrix girls and their stetsons. He was  animated in a family like country way. Animated was his aunt nym, totally like no relation.


Next I dragged the SOG to see Chris Botti at the renovated Count Basie theater in Red Bank New Jersey. That is another complete misnomer. There isn't a single fiduciary institution in the town that even hints of being in the red or structural is red. Looking at the signs "you are now entering Red Bank." You think you have mis-read the name. Even the Raritan River which runs by the town has no red banks. So where did the name come from anyway. 


Oh yeah, Chris Botti and his concert. He got his start with Oprah. Apparently he dropped out of Indiana University to play with Frank Sinatra's forty-fifth comeback revival band. Mutt liked him immediately. Then he started to play music with his talented group. Each instrument, bass guitar, bass, lead guitar, keyboard, piano, drums, and Botti on the trumpet played their hearts out. Their style is Coltrane/Davis jazz. If only they had practiced or at least communicated with each other what piece they were playing. It might have worked out better. Everyone of those guys can play, but just not together with anyone else. Occasionally and randomly they actually played in short bursts that sounded good. Then they realized they had reached a harmonious cord, and did their best to forget how that happened. The rest of the time, loud, atonal, inharmonic and competitive would best describe the conglomerated noise put forth as music. 


Guest appearances by a talented violist, and a singer with the range of air force troop transporter, added talent and some order to the music. The singer was only slightly smaller than the troop transporter.


At the end Botti admitted that he hired his drummer to receive compliments from Stink who is his good friend. That's when the SOG wanted to go home. His ears had received enough abuse and so we left. 


Mutt says the coming of fall is music to his ears. Between the invasions of the islanders from the north and the music from the south, and Stink from over seas he's ready to lie on the chaise in the back yard near the pool and listen to Diane Washington, or Billie Holiday, while drinking a Murphy's Stout. No wife-beater, no stetson, no cargo pants, and I ain't a wearin' no cowboy boots, (Sorry short relapse of countritis). He wants a baggy swim suit and sleepy eyes till the air clears, and the foreigners go home for the fall. 


This is Tink, saying like totally so long for now.
Don't let the sun catch you cryin'. 

Yoko O No "In My Life"

Sunday Tink and I visited Long Branch. It is a short drive up from Spring Lake. The sky was clear, after morning showers, and the beach was white. The people were abundant. 

The afternoon begged for us to walk the boards. The temperature was hot enough to leave no ponds behind on the shore or puddles on the roads. Walking, you really appreciate the intermittent breeze, as a caress ten degrees cooler than stolid air. 
Tink encouraged the SOG (Sick Old Guy) within me to take a leave of absence for an hour, and we walked. Long Branch's boardwalk is unique, as it goes up and down over the undulating roadway of Ocean Avenue. 

The mix of people made for a gallery of anthropological proportions from the Orthodox Jewish family with five kids - one pushed in a stroller, pregnant-mother, father, and grandparents all in shydels and yarmulkes to the Russian speaking couple, of whom the lady's large silver East Orthodox crucifix tilted upwards from her protruding belly with a pierced popped navel. 
We watched a mother and two young daughters sneaking under the railing onto the beach while a police car sit not thirty feet away. The police man stared at his in-vehicle computer screen as if he were on the Internet looking at porn while the women sans beach badge stole their space on the beach. Life is good, if not great.   

When we finished the walk, I had both a secret agenda and a plan. My plan drew us to 78 Ocean Avenue – the former? site of Atlantic Books – for an exhibit of John Lennon’s lithographs. Although Lennon’s zenith as a performer pre-dates Tink’s musical awareness, she had interest in the show. I remember rock n roll prior to the Beatles, but that is another story that we will get to later. I serve as Tink's pre-historic knowledge reservoir. Yes, I am her personal dinosaur.     

The showing presented 30 to 40 of Lennon’s sketches most of which involved pictures of his family or himself or both. (I didn't remember he went to art school in London.) Family means Yoko and Sean. Julian Lennon was disowned by this collection, as might be expected since Yoko is involved with the production. The lithographs were for sale as well, although some of the selection was already sold out. 

We wandered the exhibit with each litho having a caption. You did not realize the propaganda behind the captions until you used both your brains and your eyes to appreciate his work. Lennon is a good sketch artist. His best works do not involve subjects that are related to him or his family. Yet a majority of the showing was just that. Was this because his works usually involved himself - artist's ego? Or was the selection process biased towards these drawings that might be more saleable? 

I realize that an artist, song-writer, author, and sculpture must have an ego the size of the earthly atmosphere to succeed. So I ask again, did he mainly draw self-portraits or did Yoko select his auto-biographical works disproportionately? 
Even those lithographs that were of animals and other things non-Lennon were put into the Lennon-esque perspective by their captioning. One was meant to show Sean this philosophy or attitude, and this drawing was meant to teach Sean that. Everything Lennon and nothing separate as pure art. Yoko please remember that the essence of Lennon's Philosophy is simple, All You Need is Love. Not singularly self-love, but love of everyone.   
You don't need captions to control the viewer's mind. What does it says about the artist and his work if it has to be explained? If the art requires an explanation, then it is not communicating. 
How much of a control freak does that make the captioner, Yoko? 

Who the hell am I to make these insights? I am the audience, the one being manipulated. I mean the one being communicated with. 

Most of the "drawings" that weren't involving John directly were etching of lyrics he wrote. How amazing that he composed the lyrics for his songs using the lithographic-etching process. No note pad, and no corrections, and no doubt more money earned by the reproduction. I know, this is Dr. R. Cynic poisoner of thoughts talking. Even more amazing were the lack of strike throughs and cross outs in that material. Don't you want to own a lithograph of lyrics as written by John and reproduced by ?? I can write them out on parchment and sell them to you too. All You Need is . . . Guile. 

As to the propaganda, several of the later drawings show John with Sean walking through Central Park, and associated with them is a third person. The caption says, that is the ghost of a younger John. They intimate that Lennon had a premonition that he was going to die soon after drawing these sketches. If John knew that wouldn't the ghost be an ethereal presentation of his older self, the man walking with the child, not the teenager gesticulating at the "old man."

John more than likely drew the young-self ghost, because as all parents do, he saw his youth in the presentation of his son, Sean. He missed the days of his youth. He relived his days through his son, when life was simpler and maybe happier for him. I can't believe he knew he was going to be shot. Here I choose to ignore the untimely death of his mother when he was age nine. Or maybe he thought he was doomed for the same ending? That isn't explained because Yoko probably does it want it that way. Another woman competing for John's love, impossible for her to allow. She wants us to remember the clairvoyant, poet, who meditated and wrote song. The only person alive who really knows the depth of John's talent and ego is the Walrus, Paul McCartney. He won't talk because it will take away from him, so . . . 

As we walked the exhibit, Tink viewed the lithograph from when John and Yoko spent a week in bed for world peace. It started her talking about children and babies, which she knew would only exacerbate our debate as her biological clock is ticking. I placed an arm around her shoulder and cautioned her that an old man like me would be in my seventies when the kids hit college age. I warned her a week in bed might leave her widowed before she was married. While none of this deters her, she was interrupted by a Margaret Dumont like matron, "You should be ashamed of yourself. She no more than a child. You should stay to your own age." She paused and smiled. "Some one like me." She placed a hand on her hip and threw it up and down. Because of her bearing she bumped two men who were holding hands as they studied one of John's lithograph.  

Tink stared daggers. "I'm 49 years old (a bald-faced lie, she added more than 15 years), you just don't know how to take care of yourself, and probably don't know how to take care of a man either." 

I leaned down and kissed the Pixie's cheek. It felt warm and looked pink.    

The lady huffed once, but could think of no retort. 

But Tink wasn't finished yet. "Doc, let go home and try to make a baby now." She slid her hand into the vacant back pocket of my Bermuda shorts, and directed me out the door. 

Matron Dumont took out her cell phone no doubt dialing Jerry Falwell or Rush Limbaugh for advice. She couldn't call the police because they were too busy watching the computer screen on their cruiser. Even the Moral Majority enjoys John Lennon's art. 

It was 4:30 and the sky remained clear. I thought about the Haskell Invitational at Monmouth but I liked Lookin' at Lucky and at 4 to 5, I'd do better blind investing in the stock market using the Wall Street Journal and a pin. He won easily as I watched it on television later that evening. 
My secret agenda was next. I strolled Tink down Ocean Blvd to Avenue. No, not Ocean Avenue, but the restaurant Avenue, which is top rated by New Jersey Magazine. We had never tried it before although Pam had dined their with Alex and said it was as good as any restaurant in New York City.

Here is the menu for Dinner.

Tink loved the meal and then we went home. We turned on Night at the Opera and laughed at Margaret Dumont while lying together in our pj's on the couch. 

This is the Mad Mutt substituting for Dr. M.T. Skull. Saying, it Shore was a great day.  

Tink is back and she mad. Never piss off a Pixie.

Oh Wowzer. I thought I would never get to write on this blog again. Doctors have a lot on their minds, and sometimes, well that mind is absolutely a sieve. 


Can't remember the pass word. How bad an excuse is that? Dr. Als Zymer remember to take a Tony Robbins or Tony Roberts course or something like that. Then graduate with a Tony Award, in some broad way, it might help your memory.   


Oh but absolutely I'm not talking about my dear doc, the Mad Mutt, he remembered the code and gave it to that other guy, doc half-wit. The one who runs this blog, and writes our stories, and thinks he's important. 


Mutt and I call him, Doctor M. T. Skull. Of course not to his face or you'd never hear from us again. He has a temper worse than Zambone's. The name he uses on the book cover, that's just a pseudonym. He is Dr. M. T. Skull. Or maybe he is Doctor R. Cynic (pronounce Syn-nick), poisoner of words and writing.    


You know the guy I'm talking about with the totally receding hairline. Nothing grows inside or out of that noggin. It's like a New Jersey landfill.  We need to call the EPA and warn them of his toxic thoughts. 


You thought that odor was just springtime in New Jersey and it would stop with Summer? Absolutely totally negativo, he generates it on a regular basis as he creates our new stories. His brain is like a diesel engine from a 1945 Mac Truck running in your garage. When he is dormant then the odor dissipates, like the ashes from a volcano.      


For the public welfare, Mutt and I have to help him with stories and writing, and proof-reading or we wouldn't exist, and you wouldn't enjoy, and he wouldn't ever be dormant. That odor would be constant. We are the expediters, writing's equivalent of the Clean Air Association.     


Imagine if there were a strong wind from Central New Jersey towards Manhattan, Manhattanites would flee to Massachusetts seeking health care and treatment. Noxious fumes that is a real problem, unlike the Real Housewives of New Jersey, who fume noxiously. 


Of course, with Obama-care we may wind up having the Massachusetts health plan for the whole nation. Worse for us in NJ since Christy is crossing party lines to screw up New Jersey's hospital system and everything else. 


Anyway, we're all back, Mutt, Pam, Jayson, Darvesh, Grabowski, Frank, even Zambone is still alive, and sort of living, captive under the dome of M.T. Skull, the half-wit savant of New Jersey.


He's started working on our second adventure, which involves the death of my Ob-Gyn. As Mutt would say, Oh Boy- Got You Naked. It's so embarrassing when my Doc says something like that above a whisper. 


MT wants to name the victim Dr. Phil Anders, so I guess you know why he is dead. No I didn't give the plot away, only a pixelated joke from the Pixie. The murder mystery is a case of hit and run, with the police missing the point, and writing it off as an accident. 


Dr. Madison Muttnick to the rescue. He just can't leave it alone. A colleague's death, my doctor, you know he wants the right answer, even if it will kill him or someone else. Although Grabo threatens Mutt, it is a closed case, and the police can't stop him from investigating. He has time since his practice is slow.


We expected to know the ending of this story sometime in 2011, so absolutely don't ask questions now. We don't even know who did it yet, or the real name of my doctor other than Dr. OB-GYN. M.T. Skull will figure these things out later (with help from superior minds). 


Later this week, Mutt and I will take the night off and have dinner at Matisse in Lake Como (nee Belmar). Yeah like I could get my Mad Mutt to fly to Italy and be like George Clooney. He's more like Perry Como, than Lake Como & Joe Don Looney more than George Clooney. 


It would take Dr. M.T. Skull to send us there on a murder mystery, and he isn't known for spending a lot of money on us. He bitches and moans when he needs new ink cartridges for the printer. 


Maybe we can get him to write us a European vacation and find a dead body on the French Rivera. I can totally dream can't I? 


Back to the restaurant Matisse so Wowzers, look at the menu, click below.
 I can't figure out what to have, but everything looks delicious


Help me out, select a dish that looks really good. 


Throwing Pixie dust your way,
Rosemary Angelucci aka Tink, Mutt's Pixie. 

Sorry about being away

It has been along time since my last post. I am sorry, but I was recovering from a medical problem. And then I forgot my password for this darn blog. But Dr. Muttnick remember it, and so here we are.


In the interim, I have completed the murder mystery novel 4 Deaths, 2 Heart Attacks and a Stroke ... Then the Fatal Blow. My thanks goes out to the small critiquing group for making the story better than I could have written alone. They are christened Team Mutt. 


The manuscript is looking for representation as we speak or as you read. 


The main character is Dr. Madison Muttnick, an orthopedic surgeon who sees the evil in his community and wants to remove it. He believes the well spring of that evil is the VP of Medical Affairs at his hospital, Dr. Judas Ninestine. He plans to kill him and accept the consequences, in what he believes is a noble gesture.
Before he can act, another persons completes the task. However, with a taped phone threat from Mutt and the doc's blood on the murder victim, the prime suspect becomes the Mad Mutt. He must defend himself against the murder charge, so he investigates the real NJ boys, the Zambone Construction Co., and the administration of his hospital, which is heavily involved in No-Bell Billing. The No-bell enterprise is woven through out his hospital supplying security guards, as well as ancillary support for coding, billing and record keeping. He concludes the cause of his dying practice is No-Bell's involvement in patient referrals as they present to the Emergency Room of his hospital. 
His old enemy detective Jahn Grabowski is in charge of the murder investigation. And the FBI is investigating the construction business which dovetails into an investigation of Mutt and his Atlantic City visits. The money he wins, disappears, never banked and never declared.   
During this situation, his estranged daughter Pam appears on his doorstep with a grandson he never knew about. Divorced from a man Mutt never met, she finds him living with Rosemary Angelucci, Tink, who is barely older than his daughter, Pam. The four of them live in Mutt's Spring Lake shore home under an uneasy truce.   
The CEO of the hospital dies of cardiac arrest while talking in a closed room with Dr. Muttnick. Grabowski suspects and hopes he has the doctor for two murders. He arrests him and Dr. Muttnick is arraigned with Pam as his lawyer. For bail he puts up the shore home as collateral. 


If you are interested in how it ends, then follow this blog for events when and if this story is published. 
In the mean time, I am returning to the computer as the second in the Dr. Madison Muttnick series is rattling through my brain pan and echoing into an outline that will see him investigate the murder of one of his friends who is a physician on staff. 


Thanks for visiting my blog. 
This piece wasn't written by Tink or Mutt, but the originator, progenitor of Madison Muttnick MD.
They will be back later to write for you soon.

Whoodle or Poodle she’s the same bitch to me.

The sad story of the adopted poodle who wasn’t.

Bubs aka Bubbles is adopted. We’ve never told her but she is. When she was a pup, less than 2 years-old, I would lay awake at night dreading the day I’d have her to tell her that we picked her out at the shelter; that we had never met her parents; and that although we could see and had been told she was a poodle, we could not document any of that. She would have to take it on faith.  

When she played at the dog park with the other dogs, she never demonstrated any self-effacement, but I knew inside, not knowing … made her sad. If we had bought her directly from the breeder things would have been different, but we loved her as much as if she were given directly to us.    

It wasn’t the shelter for abused women dogs; it was a shelter for the unwanted, homeless and abandoned. The family who bought her from the breeder was childless, and then the wife who was 43 years old became pregnant. At least they didn’t blame Bubs for the pregnancy. They worried about a dog with the child, and gave up the pup. Life is full of choices, that’s why it’s spelled L – IF  - E.

The whole story started when I promised Pam if she got an A in math, her hardest subject, that she could have a dog. She’d have to walk and take care of it. I thought she’d learn responsibility. Similar to thinking that chess would teach her to be logical. Not every idea I have works out perfectly. This one, well …

Pam received an A plus in geometry, - there’s a reason she was accepted to Harvard undergrad and Yale Law school; it’s called brains.

We drove the station wagon to the shelter. Pam loved Bubbles on first sight. I have to admit that Bubbles’ dark siren eyes sang to my soul. She was a seductress of a major magnitude. The tilted head with the soft stare could melt Simon Legree’s heart, not that I put myself in his class, but during those days, working the hours that I did, well … after 40 hours awake: emergency surgery sandwiched between working two sets of 5 hours in the office, (25 to 30 patients, not all pleasant, but all needing help) being a pleasant Ole Mad Mutt all the time was difficult.

Sorry, I got sidetracked back to Bubs riding home.     

So wee-wee pad and cage in the back of the station wagon and Bubs already showing her lack of demeanor, barking and spinning in excitement, we drove home.

In the car, she would bark first at me, and then in her excitement she’d yell at the dog. Yes, I am talking about Pam who made Bubs look calm. Who says teenagers always have to play it cool? It gave me a giggle that I had to hide, so as not to incur the wrath of my daughter. At one point, between Pam’s barks and Bubs’ answers, it seemed they were singing a chorus together, in harmony.     

The dog fed off Pam and by the time we got home, they were fully bonded.

The ex’s first words were, “Did you have to pick a dirty dog. You and Pam wash her clean before she steps in my house.”

So Pam and I took Bubs out on the patio, by the pool and hosed her down and washed her up. Most dogs would probably be upset or mad at the treatment, but she was a trooper. She bit the water from the hose and rocked up and down like a carrousel horse. (She does that move even today when she is really excited.)

She barked, but not at us. She encouraged her pampering, nuzzling Pam’s hand as she soaped the dog up. Her head-thrown-back barks seemed like the whinnies from a sire about to be bred to his favorite mare.  

When we were finished, she looked no whiter. She was an off-white standard poodle. That’s what we thought. We already loved our mutant. She looked champagne colored or slightly tan. The curls were poodle although the length of the fur seemed a bit long. Maybe the curls were just a little straighter than I expected, but the length may have made them hang out.

We accepted Bubs for who she was. A mutant poodle even though the shelter had provided us with papers from the owner stating she was a pure bred. If we ever wanted to breed her to an AKC registered poodle, the off spring would be AKC registered purebred poodle. At least that is what the paper documented.

8 months after Bubbles arrived, Pam and my ex left for New York and my ex’s boyfriend in Westchester. My ex was only too happy to leave Bubs with her two daily walks with associated poop patrol, and grooming, and need for attention.

“We each get a child. You and my daughter certainly don’t think I would be yoked to that tan fuzz ball. Bubbles is your child, as Pammie is mine. We split the children down the middle. Pammie can beg all she wants, you have Bubbles.”     

Bubbles became Bubs because no man wants to be walking his large off white poodle and calling, “Here Bubbles” while standing outside of a tavern at the Jersey shore. The reaction could keep Mike Tyson in shape and training. 

The dog liked her nickname and so did I. About two years after we brought her home, I received a note from the shelter.

Ophelia Shakespeare Desdemona iii, the dog you adopted two years ago, has a problem. Please contact us.

Yes, Bubs real name as provided by her breeder was actually, Ophelia Shakespeare Desdemona iii. No wonder she liked Bubs better.

A letter of this tone, received by a physician, creates the type of fear that makes you check your healthcare coverage. Bubs was unemployed and therefore had none. She couldn’t apply for Blue Bone and Blue Muzzle, and she was ineligible for Medicaid, unless she could prove she was a Chihuahua from Mexico with a green card or work visa. People have told me that some individuals on Medicaid have neither of those documents. Can you believe that? 

Even now, our President O’Bummer ignores her demographics for healthcare coverage. Get out the dog vote next election.

I visited the shelter and they gave me a letter, which had been initially sent to the family that bought Bubs from the breeder. It stated that she was not a purebred Poodle. Although her mother had been a poodle, she, the mother, had escaped for a fling with the Wheaton Terrier sire on the next farm.

Had they been planning this assignation, or was it totally happenstance? We will never know, but Bubs was one of the products of the love connection. She was one of the original Whoodles. The cross breeding of a Poodle with a Wheaton Terrier.

They are magnificent dogs and Bubs is a typical product. She is off white in color with long curled fur and a mix in stature between the two breeds. She is usually docile like a poodle, but when whipped up, like a meringue, she behaves with the energy of a terrier. 

I wasn’t planning on breeding Bubs so the revelation was moot. However, like a good golf swing, the story would not be complete without the follow through. In the second paragraph of the letter, the breeder asked to have the names of all off spring and their owners so that the AKC could correct the breeding lines and keep the poodle breed pure.

They would perform this task for me, if I paid them $400. If I wished to perform this communications process myself, they would forward the papers for $400. If I wished to continue breeding in the future, I would need the full sire line papers and that would cost me $400. If I did not contact them, they would forward the problem to the AKC, and make sure that any off spring of Ophelia Shakespeare Desdemona iii, would be ineligible in either classification, Poodle or Whoodle.

My natural inclination was to send them a letter to stuff their whole kit and caboodle with a noodle up one of their poodles. Tink prevailed on me to ignore the letter, since we have the best dog, and they have the problem of fraud.

Seemed like a good plan, but now I worry about how I am going to tell Bubs. We know who her sire and dam were, but they weren’t of the same breed. She's a mixed breed. How will this affect her self-esteem? She usually trots proudly on the sand or boardwalk. I don’t want her to lose her swagger.      

The reason why this comes up urgently today is that the breeder, through the shelter, has located me. They sent me a bill for the paper work they have enclosed. $400. So I guess, Tink’s plan failed.

When I called the shelter, they said the breeder asked for my name. The reason they gave was a hereditary hip problem that the dog might have and needed evaluation. The shelter only wanted the dog to be taken care of well.  

I may only be a human orthopedic surgeon, but I know that a dog, who is 13 years old in dog years, and therefore, approximately 91 years in human counting, would probably have demonstrated a congenital hip defect by now. She has been on glucosamine and chondroitin sulfate since she was 5. The dog still chases squirrels, and Mrs. Leary’s cat, not to mention, the creature in the bramble, who at times gets Bubs a little whipped up.

So I am not too worried about her congenital hip problem.

I am worried about others getting sucked in by this plan to make a breeder’s deception or fraud profitable for them. I think the AKC needs to be informed of this problem. I just didn’t know how to go about it.

Over dinner last week Pam listened as Tink laughed about Bubs needing a total hip and Ole Doc Snickers – aka the Mad Mutt - putting one in her hip.

Pam offered her services because she loved her dog. On her office stationary she wrote the breeder a letter. Essentially in legalese, it states you broke it, you fix it at your expense, or we will seek reimbursement for lost income from failure to have breeding stock as advertised.

She mentioned 8 breeding seasons that would have been useable if the dog were truly a Poodle. At an average of 4 pups per litter and $1500 per dog, she estimated the damages as $48,000.

Of course, if we had actually bred the dog there would have been costs to us, but the other side of the equation was that most litters are larger than 4 pups.

Lawyers, can’t live with them and can’t live without them.

We haven’t received a letter back from the breeders as yet, but I do have the post card from the return-receipt-requested certified-letter sent by Pam.

Isn’t life fun? Just when you thought the sea was calm, some one of exceptionally low intelligence runs your bow in a speedboat. Trim the mainsail and give full chase, overheating your cannon’s muzzle from the cannonade.

Sink the Bastards and make them scuba diving fodder.    

As to Bubs, she handled all this well. I haven’t noticed her off her feed, and she still protects the house at night running from window to window barking at the damn keening from that bramble.

Sorry, I promised that we would disclose the creature of the wild rose bramble this week, but I have to defer that to the future because of this shocking news.

I am the Mad Mutt, proud owner of a Whoodle, who can’t even whistle Yankee Doodle. Goodnight Jimmy Cagney, and all ships at sea.   

Sunday at the wedding. Hey it’s me Tink. Awesome!

Caveat: some names have been changed to protect the guilty, such as Nozzle and Sprae, but they are close enough to get the picture.

Hey! Typing here is just awesome. I’m totally into it, you know.

This is Rosemary or as most of you know me, Tink. I managed to get to the keyboard while Doc and Lew P are having a Murphy’s at Bar A. They want to watch the Jets versus the Saints with loud company. Probably so when they use totally nasty language they will blend in.

Drew Breese is a cute and good, and the Jets are in trouble, but that’s not my problem until a Mad Mutt comes home to commiserate. Maybe that would not be so bad, as long as he comes home alone. We don’t need Lew P documenting.    

Personally I’d rather watch Mark Sanchez’s little tush waddle to the line at home in Mutt’s flannel lumber jack shirt and sweat pants. But what I’m looking for in a football game on television is different than what the guys watch.

Hey, Mark warm them hands before you put them down there. No wonder they’re jumping before the snap. Go Jets.       

What I did to get the computer for myself, was program a little crash into the fifth boot up after Wednesday. That happened Saturday night while Mutt tried to access WebMD.

The boys, who have no idea how to fix the computer, left that in my hands. Simple emergency boot, and a correction to directory and the hard drive, and the Tinkinator is at the wheel, so come along for the totally awesome ride.

I have a story about last Sunday. I knew I was in for a long day because our friends Kim and Ralph Nozzle had invited us their son’s wedding. We had been to their house for Thanksgiving once, and they always invite their childhood friends, the Phatfanny family, Dim-ass, Pill & their son 20 Watts. 

The Phatfannys are not easy people to get along with, and I always check to make sure Mutt isn’t packing the Colt when the Nozzles invite us over. I’m not sure if that’s because he’ll use it. Or, I might be tempted. I’m peaceful, but the Phatfannys are … annoying. That is the PC answer.

Phuck-phaces? I didn’t say that. You read it wrong. It’s not a typo.   

No matter the occasion, the Nozzles put us at the same table as the Phatfannys who are gratuitously insulting perpetually. Maybe we are the only ones who haven’t complained about them yet, so we are sacrificed.

Before we left the house, Mutt was put off. The Sunday Star Ledger missed a delivery. He initially accused me of not paying the bill, but it’s on the credit card and automatic so … sometimes, when he’s worked up he has a hair trigger temper, and between the Star Ledger and the Phatfannys, well you get the picture. Like the time he walked into the woods alone with the FBI agent following him, totally irrational, that’s what is loveable about the Spring Lake Heights Crusader, delusional passion. Back to the story.        

We called the customer service people and as usual they were pleasant. They offered a replacement copy. The delivery would come between 10 AM and approximately never. Since this has happened about once every three months, we know never is a more likely time than 10 AM.

That was the case Sunday, but they delivered a Sunday paper, Monday with the Monday paper. I guess the delivery guy held it hostage. The ransom for the Sunday Ledger, 125 cents, and the way the paper is shrinking not worth it.     

The really interesting part is that the same guy delivers the New York Times as the Star Ledger. Invariably, we get one and not the other, but it is never both that are MIA. The talent involved in not delivering half a standing order is mindboggling. No comics to read this weekend, boo. Doc was not happy.      

We had to start dressing around 3:30 because of the drive to Roxbury where the wedding would be held.

Of course, the Ledger was nowhere to be seen before we left. Mutt went into Sunday sports section withdrawal, and that is an awesome spectacle of puffing, followed by the holding of the breath, leading into punching walls or doors, and the finale, throwing himself on the bed naked after the shower, kicking his feet and making everything jiggle from head to toes.

I’d call it childish, but I don’t want to insult children everywhere. They are not that immature.     

Having Doc naked on the bed is not a problem for me, I’ve always enjoyed making the four-poster squeak, but because of the time element, there was not any time to take real advantage of the situation, or him.

Foreplay? No time for two-play. Even mind play was out, a flash fantasy maybe, but like a haiku fantasy, at the most contained in twenty words.    

Mutt was in a snit about wearing a monkey suits and a cummberous-bund, but he looks so handsome and adorable in that black and white attire that it is worth putting up with the grousing. Since he dropped 25 pounds, we’ve shortened the cummerbund four inches. Sometimes women give him the eye, a new experience for both of us.  

I need only shoot him pixie love dust with a glance, add a compliment. Bingo, the snit resolves, with a “Do I really look like Sean Connery in Dr. No?”

Men can be so foolish.     

They held the wedding in Roxbury New Jersey, which is more than an hour’s drive from the Jersey shore when there is no traffic. This was Sunday night, like a total disaster, and to make matters worse, a tractor-trailer decided to imitate a half-opened jack-knife lying on its side.

Frozen Perdue roasters scattered over the Turnpike looking like a mass exodus from a Portuguese Churrascaria prior to roasting. The clean up would have been faster, if each passing car was allowed to take a roaster home. For sitting 2 hours, stopped dead, on the pike, that’s the least they could do.

Mutt tried to make a u-turn but a state trooper wouldn’t let him pull-it off. That’s the best I can do for a poultry joke, excuse me, a paltry joke.     

We would not have taken a chicken, because they were not formally dressed. I could have used one as a bustle maybe. You know that thing ladies wore in the 1880’s to give them a bubble butt. The more things change the more they stay the same. Yo Yo, booty call in the Victorian hood, you all. Just giving the antiques their props. 

By the time we arrived at the wedding, the post ceremony reception had started. Mutt looked at the bright side saying, “At least our car was at the front of the valet section, because they filled from back to front. Easy exit. Less time with the Phatfannys.” Then he announced, “Phatfanny red alert.” He imitated a siren, as he left the Honda, and put on his tux jacket.  

He wanted to leave. He is so totally blatant, the tact of a four year-old. Wait Jay would know not to say that, so there goes that theory.

When we sat at the table, with Pill Phatfanny next to me, I understood the emotion. Instead of hello, she said, “That old Honda have trouble making it all the way here from the shore? Our Benz has a GPS that’s works in real time. You understand real time as in computer speak? Thought not.”

This from a lady whose main accomplishment in life is avoiding a homosexual scandal in her boys scout troop by only letting the Moms be the troop leaders. She brought new meaning to the phrase, “Dem Mothers.”      

Mutt, to his credit, smiled and replied, “Actually the Honda tried to chicken out on the Turnpike, because it perdued its nerve. Perdue as in French. You speak the language of the sophisticate, right?”

She looked to her husband Dim-ass and said, “I don’t get it.”

To which Mutt replied, “That’s obvious. When you look like the Crypt Keeper post-exsanguination, you’ll probably never get it. Unless there is a vacant trash bag available, and simultaneously, someone is truly desperate.”

I kicked him. He stopped and the Phatfannys turned to the couple on the other side of them and asked. “So, your daughter married a girl? Is that legal? How’s that working out? Our first grandchild is due in two months.”   

The couple didn’t respond, and left the table to dance on the far side of the floor.

Mutt asked, “And who’s the father of your grandchild. Did they round up suspects yet?”

But they didn’t hear him. And I had to kick him under the table again.

“It was worth the pain.” He replied.  

We left to introduce ourselves to the parents of the bride and groom, who were sitting nearby. Kim Nozzle brought us over to Patrick and Beverly Sprae. 

A little while later the music stopped, and the bride and groom made their entrance. The couple in a gesture to modernity decided to hyphenate their names. They were introduced as Dr. and Mrs. Sprae-Nozzle.

It could have been Nozzle-Sprae.  

He is a GU doctor. Maybe the married name is advertising.

“Have it adjusted by Dr. Sprae-Nozzle, and shoot only blanks without hazzle.”      

The Phatfannys had a field day with the name but not within the hearing of their host and hostess. Dim-ass made several significantly off-color jokes involving the bride handling the new name, and what gauge nozzle, all of which combined a lack of class, taste, and sensitivity. He is the master at that.

After five tries without a single laugh from his audience, the Crypt Keeper pulled him to the dance floor.  

On his return, he mentioned that the newlyweds were still looking for a house and would be living with her parents in Nutley for about 6 months. He railed about living with your relatives and not being a couple on your own.

“Where’s the maturity? How is that earning your way in life?”  

He bragged how his son, 20 Watts – yes he’s not bright, less so than Dim-ass – lived on his own in New York with his fiancé. They have a luxury cooperative apartment on the West Side in the 80’s. It’s rent controlled and in the family since the pilgrims touched Plymouth Rock. 

They boasted how their son is in an allied field to the bridegroom, and can afford his rich digs.

However, if memory serves the Tinkinator right, his son inherited his apartment from a dead uncle who had no children and made his money manipulating stocks in the 70’s. He left that money to Pill and Dim-ass, but he left the apartment with a trust fund to pay rent to 20 Watts.

Dim-ass is less forth coming with his son’s occupation. They talk about how he got into Cornell, but elected not to matriculate. Instead, he followed the pipeline into other career opportunities.

I am not sure how being a plumber is an allied field to being a GU physician. Both are honest lines of work, but apparently, plumber does not meet the threshold for Dim-ass or Pill to mention, at least not specifically.

Honesty has never been allowed to get in the way of the Phatfanny stories. They boasted that 20 Watts’ fiancé is studying animals and is interested in becoming a veterinarian.

I’m interested in flying without a plane, but I am incapable of that feat at this time. She’d have a better chance of becoming a vegetarian. But the vegetables might out smart her.    

During the salad portion of the meal, he asked Doc if his life story had been published yet. Doc replied it’s being proofed and needed some editing before it was published. Lew P will start pitching it in November. 

Pill volunteered, “I thought as much, because I haven’t seen it mentioned on the New York Times best-seller list.” When she crinkles her nose, her skin looks like used tissue paper, and her sneer is straight from Cruella De Vil. “Not even in the paperback section.”

She didn’t ask for an ARC copy. I don’t think she can read anything other than tea leafs and graphic novels anyway. (That’s graphic not gothic. In gothics the plot would be to hard for her to follow.)  

Dim-ass bragged about being written about as an artist – he makes fancy sausage and other stuffed meats – and that led to his editors demanding that he write articles about the experience.

“I’m published in several magazines. Right now, as of this very moment, multiple editors are sending me subjects to free lance via e-mail.”

“What do you write about?” Mutt asked between bites of salad.  

“My area of expertise. The modern use of principles from the industrial revolution in making salami and bologna.”

Doc muttered, “I knew he was a bologna expert.”

His e-mail address must be fifty_percent-bugsnrats_Sin_Lewis@asshole.ditz 

I grabbed Doc to dance, which is a major victory, because in that monkey suit he feels like a gigolo. He thinks that dancing draws attention to that sleazy image. He won’t tango and the only Paris he knows is followed by the name of a former hotel chain, but he had been filled to the hilt on Phatfanny stories.   

To me he is Fred Upstairs, and we won’t talk about who he is down stairs. I remain a lady.

When we got back to the table, the main course had been served. Dim-ass announced over his Roast Beef, “I haven’t got me a good piece of meat in ages.” Then he looked at Pill. She blushed. I guess embarrassing anyone works for him.

Pill then launched into a story about Pam. Several years ago 20 Watts saw her at a shore bar and thought she was trolling – the episode includes his failed attempt to pick her up. Apparently, Pam was dressed fashionably for the bar scene. 

This story, which has been retold every time we meet is not only growing old, but isn’t even original – the lesser light told it first, and poorly. The story should have died a natural death, but like a zombie is perpetuated at the most opportune time to embarrass my Doc.    

I had had enough. So had several people at the table. “Every time I hear that story I wonder, what was a happily engaged man like 20 Watts doing in a pick up bar at the shore, while his fiancé worked the weekend as an assistant pet groomer at Dog R Us. He travels from New York for what, variety? By the way, how do they tell her apart from the dog she’s grooming.” 

Mutt spit up his white wine when I said that, and then said, “A toast to the meek inheriting the earth, while the boastful and bragging live with what little they have and boast of it. May we always know the difference between true friends and the entitled without a real time GPS – Good People Scanner.”  

Everyone at the table raised a glass, although the Phatfannys were slow to do so.

Our host and hostess still don’t get it. The Phatfannys are unhappy people who must tear others down to make themselves appear large.

Their pear-shaped bodies, a species’ trait, should allow for an enlarged brainpan within their fat fannies for the functioning section of their brain. That area appears spacious, vacuous, and cavernous.

They must be like the first IBM computers that took up a room and functioned no better than a handheld phone does today. The Phatfannys are the human equivalent of Univac I, and in today’s world, they are competing with smaller, smarter, and faster versions. Their statements come from the pure bitterness of being obsolete, and non-competitive.    

Doc’s home from Bar A. He says, “Next time, he will blog on Lance and the creature from the wild rose bramble. The damn Leary cat still lives.”

Apparently it was a long game and they had quite a few Murphy’s. He went straight to the bathroom. It’s been five minutes and I haven’t heard a flush yet.
“Hey big guy don’t fall in.” LOL.   

 I’m not Mad and I am certainly no Mutt. The loo is a British bathroom and so pee belongs there, not on the computer. I am the Tinkinator, and I’ll be back.