Bark is Better Than Bite

I am a freelance writer. This means that I sometimes get compensated for typing at the computer (exceptions include this nonsense). I do it at home. It's a nice gig.

However, my writer's haven was recently threatened by the relentless presence of a neighboring dog. Actually, each of my three surrounding neighbors has at least one dog that roams their respective yard. It's like a terrible sitcom waiting to happen. But this particular dog has a very precise habit: Whenever it is released outdoors, it barks. Incessantly. Nonstop. Almost as if it's carrying on a spirited one-sided debate.

I recently peered through the upstairs blinds to see this animal that was tempting fate. I discovered that it's a Chihuahua, a breed that is apparently prone to barking (thank you, Dad). I witnessed a bizarre scene that played out daily: A woman sitting on her patio, smoking a cigarette, talking on her cell phone, all while the dog literally barked in the vicinity for no apparent reason other than canine insanity. Just like a parent who has developed an ability to tune out their screaming brood while shopping at Target, this woman apparently was oblivious to her insistent pooch. (They also have a manual lawnmower, reason enough to place them under suspicion.)

After considering my passive-aggressive options, I decided on a covert operation. I would take a sleeping pill, wedge it into a doggy treat, and strategically toss it over the fence. As it turns out, my best option was not action, but threat of action. My friend was talking with his parents in the backyard, and explained my joke plan to them, all while unaware that the neighbor was outside. And then, just like a sitcom, actually: "C'mon, boy! Come here!" Problem solved.

So remember, the threat of force is usually incentive enough.

And no, I would not drug a dog.

Go for it.

It's later than you think.

Breaking Up is, Like, Hard to Do

I'm currently in a tenuous relationship with pop culture. As with any relationship, my affair with PC was at first exciting and filled with discovery. But PC began to make frequent trips to the club restroom, dance on tables, and display a dumbed-down sensibility. We can barely talk anymore. 

Then PC really tested our relationship by befriending The Hills. For my Amish readers (who strangely have an Internet connection), The Hills is a "reality" series that follows the insipid lives of twenty-somethings living, playing, and theoretically working in the Hollywood Hills. 

What's most remarkable about this show is that the characters aren't popular because of their personalities. There is nothing extraordinary about any of them. They can barely articulate their order at the In-N-Out drive-thru. No, they are famous because MTV follows them with cameras. That's it. In the old days, say, 10 years ago, talent was a precursor to celebrity. But The Hills has proved that even the most vapid individual can become famous.

For the armchair sociologist, The Hills injects fresh urgency into a timeless question: Does art inform life or life inform art? In this case, either prospect is troubling. If it's the former, our culture is in trouble. If it's the latter, our culture is in trouble. 

If I had a daughter, I would be terrified. There is rarely anything in entertainment that encourages women to embrace more than their looks. But if I ever do have a daughter, I will make sure she knows that it's okay to be intelligent. That she doesn't have to dumb herself down for boys. That beauty and brains are not mutually exclusive. And that The Hills is anything but reality.

The day is approaching when LC and Co. will depart their Hollywood digs and return to reality-reality. Or, more likely, they'll begin to appear on reality shows for celebrities. But if this show has proven anything, it's that everyone is a celebrity. All they're missing is a video camera.

The Shallow End of the Reality Pool

Tonight I caught-up with a former music-industry compatriot and overall brilliant individual. But even brilliant minds can fall prey to good reality television. And by good, I mean programming showcasing people whose narcissism is on 10 while their self-awareness hovers around 1. Okay, zero.

In a moment of vulnerability, she confessed to enjoying VH1's Rock of Love. While I myself rarely watch television, I do read Entertainment Weekly (a paradox, I know). So I'm familiar with the show's concept: Poison frontman Brett Michaels hosts a hard-rock version of The Bachelor, as, ahem, ladies vie to be his one and only. For at least 72 hours. I envision the entire series taking place in one giant hot tub.

Considering that every reality show concept known to man, woman, and alien has aired, it would seem that the "talent" pool for contestants would have to be shrinking. By this point, what person with even a modicum of vocal ability has not auditioned for American Idol? 

If the singing pool has shrunk, then the dating contestant pickings must be slimmer than an Olson. After multiple seasons of The Bachelor, Average Joe, Paradise Hotel, Flavor of Love, and countless more, what women are left to take part in Rock of Love? I must believe that, if they so chose to form a coalition, such a frightening ensemble could end war, bring Wall Street to its knees, and travel through time at will. They scare me.

What the World Needs Now

A new blog! That's right, another voice is adding to the deafening digital noise. Too much information? No such thing. Too much superfluous information? Maybe. Regardless, here I am, planting my flag, staking my virtual territory.

I have for some time resisted blogging for a variety of reasons, including the following:

1. I have nothing to say. (This may well be true.)

2. I have nothing of significance to say. (Probably true.)

3. I have nothing of significance to say of interest to others. (Almost certainly true.)

But there is something cathartic about getting your thoughts down on ones and zeroes. It provides a personal forum for ideas and musings that would otherwise be homeless.

So here I am.