I’m new here. Can I please just stay under the old stereo behind the ratty sofa in the corner of the living room? No, of course not. I have to paraded around town (to art store of all places, on my first afternoon off the farm), dragged out of various cozy corners to socialize, and “brought out of my shell.” (Speaking of shells, did I mention I like to eat snails?)

But I get my revenge. Apparently I have big poop for a puppy, and I really despise having to do it while I’m on a leash. So Jay or David will spend an hour outside with me, idiotically babbling “go poddy! go poddy!” or something like that, but I manage to hold it until we get inside. Heh heh. And boy can I whiz!

Then there’s the whole escape thing. David can run fast–but I’ve got twice as many legs and something to prove. I stopped, eventually. But now I’m busted and have this tetherball-type apparatus in back that keeps me in a 15-foot orbit around a giant corkscrew embedded in the ground. I will admit it is nicer than having my big dumb humans right there on those rare occasions when I do have to go in the back yard.

They’re OK, I guess.

First of all, I’m SO sorry. Especially to Paulette, who manages to write beautiful posts even while in Europe. They have such weird keyboards there, not to mention lots of distractions to the would-be blogger.

You know who else has lots of distractions? Me! Namely, Dozer, rugby, and my real job. All three of these produce a lot of shit that I have to deal with, lately to the exclusion of my blog duties.

Dozer is, of course, the cutest puppy in the universe. I will momentarily post photographic evidence of this fact. He is also a bit high maintenance at the moment, what with his gargantuan poops (all too often on the beige grass on the inside of 843), his dinnertime escape artistry, and a shyness that is criminally vulgar (to quote Moz). David can tell you exactly how fast this pup can run, while I can tell you exactly how quickly he can hide behind the sofa. But we’ve had a quiet night here tonight and a good walk and he seems to be adjusting quite well.

Rugby is another story altogether. It has been high drama with a board member quitting after I pissed him off, a website relaunch, and our upcoming West Coast Gay Rugby Tournament May 10. Oh, and somewhere in there I ghostwrote an article for a drag queen and helped her get three of my teammates to strip, shower, and towel off on stage at the Timberline. And people wonder why I am ready to get back to the pitch!

Work is enjoyably insane right now. I am doing seven positioning projects at the moment–four was previously my limit, and I am afraid my head might explode. But it’s all fun work, and far better than my final year of boredom spiked with terror at Landor. But I will be in full dog-paddle mode until mid-June, so please forgive any authorial lapses.

That’s the news and I am outta here.

Ok, first of all. I’m in a bloody foreign country (I mean that it in the British way, not the literal one) and yet I´m the only one to post to this site since I last posted like a year ago. Y’all are a bunch of slackers!

That said, hey from Madrid. I hate postcards, so consider this a mass one. Wish you were here. Actually, I do. And then we would stay. Whoever said this was an ugly city (you know you are) was smoking crack (and you should really give that up) because it´s anything but. Actually, it´s much prettier than Paris in its own way. Much less of that fussy ornate architecture, more interesting and, well, Spanish style buildings. It´s more beautiful in the way that New York is beautiful, except, again, with Spanish style. And the blue and white tile thing that´s all over the place, a holdover from Moorish times, is really working for me.
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