yustyoking

 

“Write what you know” is the advice proffered to every would-be writer. I know that the process of packaging, formatting and presenting my novels to literary agents in New York and pitching my screenplay to studios and production companies in L.A. is killing my writing! Ah, those Halcyon days when all I had on my plate was creative writing. I feel like I’m running a publishing house, each individual letter etched in stone. Ambition, thy name is pain! Take that as a warning. According to Marco Rubio, of course, it’s all Obama’s fault.

Because, believe it or not, those vast spaces between blog posts are taken up by life experience. Living! There are other things in my life than designing book covers. For example, Oxburg’s own Anti-Leash Law Movement. This is an important First Amendment gathering of like-minded individuals who are concerned over curtailment of our basic freedoms. Which is why on the Friday before “Blizzard 2016,” we occupied the Mary T. Boynton Picnic and Rest Area off the bike path in Oxburg, Maryland.

Like Hollywood, Maryland, Oxburg is a concise geographical area. Tucked behind what used to be the White Flint Mall (sic transit gloria mundi, thus passes away the glory of the world), we’ve got Rockville Pike on that side. A sunken road, The 1812 Highway, borders us to the north. Natalie Woods flanks us to the east. To the south, endless, breathtaking… nothing. Suburbia.

We are particularly proud of the five miles of bike path ringing Oxburg. With the exception of a hair-raisingly wild trail through scenic Natalie Woods, we are talking black macadam, smooth as a baby’s behind, with a dainty white line painted down the middle to separate traffic. At Mile 2, in a stand of maples and oaks, there’s even a concrete blockhouse, two picnic tables and an outdoor hibachi. The Mary T. Boynton Picnic and Rest Area. One side of the blockhouse says “MEN,” the other side says “WOMEN.” Inside each, there are two toilet stalls, two sinks and— in the case of the Men’s— a stand-up urinal. Very functional, the indoor surfaces are covered in glazed sky-blue tile. There’s even a janitor—a lanky, black, town employee named Rufus— who shows up at odd hours, places fresh paper towels and toilet rolls in the receptacles and swabs everything down with Lysol. Such a convenience!  And don’t we all use it. For safety reasons, and to stay one step ahead of homeless people, the local constabulary padlocks the steel doors at night.

Living in Oxburg has resulted in a certain degree of community spirit. True, I don’t personally own a dog, but when asked, I earn my reputation— to quote Town Council Chairman Johnny J. Johnson— as “a goddam fussbudget troublemaking libertarian son of a bitch!”

Always nice to be recognized.

For years, dog owners fought for designated dog parks where Fido could run free with like-minded canines. Having achieved their goal— we got three— and human nature being what it is, they want… more! The Dog Owners, Watchers and Sitters Association wants a review of the draconian (they say) 1952 Leash Law. “No one else is made to wear a leash!” they reason. “End the yoke of slavery! Free the spirits! Dog Lives Matter!”

Yada, yada, yada. Hey, I gotta get outta the house, right?

Wearing backpacks and carrying foldable beach chairs, five of us stalwarts show up at 1 o’clock on Friday, January 22, 2016. Unfolding our chairs and the Sports section of The Washington Post, we break out a thermos of hot coffee, call our accompanying dogs to heel and proceed with our protest.

“I know what it is to feel pain,” insists the lisping, listing Ronald Hilton, a craggy-faced accountant with a briar pipe clenched between yellow teeth. He sports a blue beret and a voluminous black winter coat. Once we discover that a discussion of China’s Five-Year Plan is a non-starter, the talk centers on dogs instead. “My weimaraner Sparky met the most horrendous brute online in one of those canine chat rooms. When he snuck down to the park for a midnight tryst, poor little Sparky was thoroughly victimized. The poor darling was raped. Pillaged. Sodomized. From that day to this, my computer is off-limits. This dog is grounded!”

I look at Sparky. The color of a silver ghost, he doesn’t exactly have a guilty expression on his mug.

“This is going to be huge,” Walter Crumb insists.  A youngish computer salesman, wearing plaid and going bald, everything is always superlatives with Walter. A free spirit, he’s already rolling a joint.

“Walter, please!” I plead. “Civil disobedience, yes, violating drug laws, no.”

“Wha-at?!” he squawks innocently.

In search of legitimacy, I have chosen the most intellectual person I know— Manfred “Manny” Presto— to write our screed. In the Old Days, this would have been imposible, since Manny teaches at the University of Heidelberg in Germany. Skype saves the day! Manny was the guitarist in Oxburg High’s very own hair metal band, The Brass Tacks. Faking upper-class British accents, the boys even had a theme song à la The Monkees:  “Ain’t we cool an’/ We got the schoolin’/ Rada rada rada/ We’re The Brass Tacks!” Better you shouldn’t have been there!

So Manny Presto writes our manifesto:

“Incoherence is resistance! Themes of empire, desire, anarchy, ancestry, microfauna and macroflora, the apocalypse and the future of all mankind weigh heavily on our attempt today to unleash the forces of good versus evil. The demons are right to be offended. We don’t like them! Set free the dogs of war! Freedom’s just another word for the irresistible flow of history. As Kierkegaard reminds us, dog spelled backwards is god and ton spelled backwards is not.”

I admit, this deviates somewhat from what I expected, but when no one else complains, I figure, let sleeping dogs lie.

It’s about now, as Manny’s manifesto plays out on our laptops and tablets, that I look up in confusion and see, from behind, a brunette in black leather boots, black leggings and a pink winter coat. She is busy picking up DVD cases from the ground. How did DVD cases get to the Mary T. Boynton Picnic and Rest Area? As she turns around, holding a stack of at least 20 DVD’s, I am amazed to realize that she is, like, 14 years old! Wearing rainbow-tinged ski goggles, her face is as soft and unmarked as a Madonna’s.

“Hello!” I call, rising and approaching her. “What’s up?”

“They forecast snow, so I thought we ought to squirrel away a good collection of movies in case we get snowed in,” she explains, staring at me through her plastic ski goggles with enormous blue eyes.

We’re a collection of old codgers, no way is there room for a 14-year-old. She doesn’t even have a dog!

“You’re just passing by?” I surmise hopefully. “You’re on your way home? Yes?”

“No,” she says, her mouth turned down in a gorgeous pout. “I read about you guys on Kik and decided I should come join the protest.”

“Wait a minute— !”

“You guys are all over Kik. Everybody’s talking about you. Doggie Lives Matter.”

“What is Kick? You mean Kickstarter?”

“No, silly! Kik. It’s a social networking site for young people. We love dogs, too, you know!”

“I’m sure you do,” I reply. As the responsible party, I tell her, “Go home!”

“It’s a free country!” she insists defiantly.

“You probably don’t even live in Oxburg,” I claim desperately. There are so many laws regarding minors and I don’t want any of those kinds of headaches.

“I live with my folks on West Camden,” she tells me, sticking out her round little chin. She’s so pretty, I could eat her alive!

“Please, please, please— ” I beg. Too late, she’s busy petting the dogs, spilling DVD cases everywhere. “We don’t even have a DVD player!” I bleat.

“My laptop plays DVD’s,” Jacqueline David chimes in helpfully, looking up from the Style section of the newspaper. This… is… not… helping!

(The only truly consistent item on my laptop is a pop-up ad for Zynga’s FarmVille 2.)

So now, in addition to our furry friends, we have a 14-year-old mascot.

My high school class was a very mixed bag, so I’m not particularly wowed to see Pando M’Onium from Mumbai ride up on his racing bike, white plastic shopping bags swinging from the handlebars. “What’s this ’bout a protest?” he asks, an excited look on his handsome, brown-skinned face. Good old Pando! We used to double date in eleventh grade. As I explain our purpose, he stirs old leaves and ashes from the hibachi. Unloading his parcels, he pulls out charcoal, lighter fluid, an enormous package of hot dogs, mustard and two bags of buns. Despite my groans, he soon has a fire going and wieners grilling.

Nobody listens!

[Jeff Bezos, owner of The Washington Post, now utilizes a Call Center in India to handle Customer Service. When those sweet, young Indian IT hotshots run up against the demanding, anal retentive culture of the U.S. Government, both sides end up butting heads.]

Having requisitioned my beach chair, our young lady is busy pecking away on her smartphone. “What’s your name?” I ask.

“Ginny!”

Christ, even her name is hot. This was not my intention.

“C’mere!” she says. “Sit!”

“What’s up?”

“I know who you are! You’re Kevin Feingold, the blogger.”

“Ah! Notoriety,” I joke, “thy name is mud. I’m such a celebrity, nobody’s ever heard of me! I’m not exactly Donald Trump.”

“I wanna be a writer,” Ginny explains. As Teddy Peligrosa’s dachshund waddles to her side, she scrolls on her smartphone, reading aloud. “Ernst Stavro Kleinfeldt faced the firing squad of life. Fortunately, he had his iPhone and Bluetooth to guide him. ‘Do you love me, Henrietta?’ he asked Henrietta von Fritz Alpokvist, his dalmatian. Speaking in tongues, the dog licked Ernst’s kneecap affectionately. He— ”

“Stop!” I scream. “Just… stop! What are you doing?”

“It’s a novel.”

“Yeah, I got that, but what’s the point of view? The voice? The syntax? What frame of reference are we dealing with here?” I ask, feeling like a curmudgeon.

“He’s a Soldier of Christ.”

“Yeah, okay,” I answer, flummoxed. “Whatever! Write and enjoy it your own way.”

Looking up, I see Town Councilwoman Claire Daphne storming down the embankment from the houses on 4th Street. She zeroes in on me. “Kevin Feingold!” she shouts. “How dare you! Don’t we always give you everything you want? Why do you always do this? Are you some sort of hippie???” Seething, she is, as usual, a complete and total, hopeless buffalo.

“Now see here— ” Ronald Hilton protests. I let him have a go. “This is a group effort of concerned citizens. No one person is responsible! The leash laws in this township are positively archaic! Any well-trained canine is thoroughly capable of walking at heel. We— ”

“It’s not us!” screeches Claire. “It’s the Animal At Large Law of Montgomery County and the state law in Annapolis. Cecil Calvert, the Second Baron Baltimore, kept foxhounds. Although he never left England, he gave his brother Leonard instructions in 1633 for governing the colony, including defense, the building of homes, surveying of land, making of salt, mining of iron ore and the husbanding of animals. As Maryland’s first governor, Leonard enforced those rules. Our hands are tied! We are bound hand and foot. Protest to Rockville, protest to Annapolis, not here!” she demands. Bound at neither hand nor foot, she angrily turns on her heels and marches back up the hill.

“Not to worry,” snickers Walter Crumb, peering at his cell phone. “I got it all on video. Uploading… now!”

A pleasant diversion, I take a few moments to join Jacqueline David and Ginny who are watching a movie on DVD. It starts with a panoramic view of a ruined cityscape à la WALL-E. A deep man’s voice, guttural German accent, intones: “My vorld ees filled wid wiolence. From Greenvich Willage to the sea, peoples is fighting. This ees also an homage to The Beeg Epple. Seven million peoples live in the city. Actually, a little less than seven million as the SARS virus—”

            SPLAT! A tousled man’s head comes flying at us like a cannonball, leaving a crimson swath across the screen. Screams. Around the edges of the bloody swath, headless zombies— arms stretched out in front— wobble along 5th Avenue. World War Z meets Urban Legend, what is wrong with this picture?  More to the point, is there anything remotely watchable about it?

Of course, Marco Rubio believes this film would be a lot better if President Obama wasn’t fundamentally trying to change America.

A shark-faced man in a trenchcoat like something out of World War Two and a homburg hat comes along the bike path walking a rottweiler. “Oh, hi!” he grins, desperately trying to curb his dog, who is wildly lunging at our pets, its behind wagging. “What’s with the beach chairs, dudes? And ladies.”

The “And ladies” sets off security alarms in our heads. Nobody talks that way outside of a federal building.

“Next stop Raqqa, Syria!” he proposes.

“Pardon?” asks Ronald Hilton icily.

“I’m just saying,” the stranger natters on, growing weirder by the second. “First you advocate the overthrow of the U.S. Government and now you espouse traveling to Syria and joining the Islamic State, right?”

“Says who?” demands Walter Crumb, fists clenched, angrily approaching Mr. Trenchcoat.

“I’m just sayin’ and all. I mean, that is your program, isn’t it?”

“Hey, maybe you better shut up!”

“Or what? I’ll sic my dog on you, shit head!” counters the stranger. But with its tongue lolling out and hindquarters wagging, a less threatening rottweiler I have yet to meet.

“Have a nice day,” I chime in brightly.

“Aren’t you, in fact, responsible for several deaths on the island of Grenada?” he asks me acidly.

“Well, well,” I scoff. “Fonzie jumps the shark! Somebody’s been accessing a lot more than Google Earth.”

“Anarchists!”

“We wouldn’t be having this difficulty,” insists Walter, almost tearing his hair out, “except that Barack Obama is president and knowingly, fundamentally trying to change this country. And not in a good way!”

“You’re just another bunch of goddam New York Jews brown-nosing your way into Cuba!” insists the stranger.

“Ecce homo, behold the man!” jeers Ronald Hilton. “Salus populi suprema lex esto, let the welfare of the people be the supreme law.”

Pando tosses a plastic fork.

“Move along!” I exclaim helpfully. “Nothing to see here, folks! This means you. Otherwise, we’ll sic our dachshund on you. A nervous fucker, he’ll pee on your shoes.”

Whatever his motive, with us laughing at him, our provocateur blushes furiously and— dragging the rottweiler— stomps off.

“F.B.I. informant,” Ronald Hilton proposes sagely, filling his pipe. “Federal agent. Did you see his wingtips? Civil servant footwear. Sheesh! I work with these people all the time.”

Feeding and watering the pooches while gorging on hot dogs and peanut brittle, we get interrupted by a mighty roar, shattering the tranquility of the bike path. Spooking man and beast alike. Nine massive motorcycles glide ominously into view, driven by Vikings and pirates bewhiskered in assorted hair colors and lengths.  “Balto Bandits” declare their leather vests.

“No motorized vehicles on the bike path, dudes,” squeaks Ronald, apparently terrified.

“We’re here for you!” shouts their leader. Toting a Thompson submachine gun on a sling across his chest— more for show than blow— he ceremoniously dismounts, comes forward and clasps me in a bear hug. Totally freaking me out. What if the gun goes off?! “Goddam gov’ment!” he announces.

“You saw us online?” I sigh, already tired of our Internet popularity.

“Wha—? No! We got a call from a local member of the Maryland Citizens Volunteer Militia. He thought y’all might need our help fighting socialist tyranny,” offers this son of Oden cheerfully.

“I counted the hot dogs,” volunteers Pando. “We’ve got enough.” Not wanting any trouble, excruciatingly aware of his place in the pecking order, he busies himself on the hibachi.

“How many gallons in the tank?” I ask, always a conversation starter among motorcycle enthusiasts.  We stand around discussing cubic centimeters.

“I got a 500cc Suzuki in my garage,” their leader assures me, “that might just fit a lowbrow novice like yourself.”

“Cool.”

We chew the fat until the snow starts at 3 p.m. The dogs jump in the air, yelping, nipping at snowflakes. “Shit! We gotta get back to Balto. Riding motorcycles in the snow is not fun!” our uninvited guests announce in a hail and hearty farewell. “And thanks for the dogs!” They do wheelies up and down the macadam. Before we know it, they are gone in a cloud of grimy black exhaust fumes. Our ears ring.

Probably because President Obama is trying to fundamentally change America.

            Thrup… thrup… thrup… thrup… A U.S. Army RQ-11 Raven drone, hardly bigger than a model airplane, not only invades our air space—

            Crash!

— it gets tangled in the kite-eating branches of a maple tree and flops to the ground, thrashing and buzzing like a wounded bat.

Hey, dudes, close only counts in horseshoes!

I guess if we wanted attention, we should be pleased. Feeling more and more like dartboards, we’re left considering that maybe Reality TV is the way to go.

I begin cleaning the area, dumping folded paper plates and white plastic forks into one of Pando’s grocery bags. Everything is dusted by a sheen of snow making skeleton patterns on the sidewalk.

“All right, so what is this?!” demand two Oxburg police officers, driving up and getting out of their squad car. So much for no motorized vehicles on the bike path! Nobody I know, they both look plenty pissed. Not exactly a “Snow Falling on Cedars” vibe.

“There are stink bugs in the Gents!” complains Walter Crumb, coming from the Men’s room, red-faced, reeking of weed and high as a kite. “Also, we’re practicing our citizens’ right to peaceably assemble.”

“Want some peanut brittle?” I ask the policemen.

“You fucking ass-holes!” one of them replies. Wet, ponderous snowflakes stick to the visor of his cap. “Haven’t you heard the weather forecast? We’re expecting snowmageddon. Get the fuck outta here! We are not sending Ambulance & Rescue when you a-holes get marooned out here in four feet of snow!” Carding Ginny, they become truly furious upon discovering that she’s a minor. Marching her to their cruiser, they stash her in the back with her pile of DVD’s. “I’ll catch ya later, Kevin!” she shouts. The troopers stare at me, molten brown murder in their eyes.

When I get home, mom sends me to fight my way through the grocery aisles. Confronting empty shelves, I stock up on remnants. Looks like we’ll spend the next three days subsisting on tea and vanilla pudding. I’ve known worse. It would be a lot better if President Obama wasn’t trying to change America fundamentally.

It snows for 36 hours, a cool, light and fluffy 30 inches of the white stuff. During the following week, I go out and shovel five times, a total of 7,200 pounds of snow by my calculation. I don’t hurt myself, but my charley horses got charley horses. Taylor Swift sings, composes and plays the guitar. The girl has the world at her feet. I shovel 7,000 pounds of snow. Qualifying me as a day laborer. Is life unfair or what?

This is only a problem because Barack Hussein Obama has spent the last seven years changing the spin of the planet. Ask Marco Rubio. It’s all Obama’s fault. Take that, Oprah! We can be victims, too, y’know!

Finis coronat opus, the end crowns the work. Newly muscle-bound, finally in shape, why am I not surprised when my phone rings and Ginny wants to know if I can come sledding? “Bring your dog!” she adds.

How can I explain to her that I don’t own a dog?