My dog is dead, and my grief is limitless.

Back in 1997, Tina and I got married and bought a puppy — a black and tan dachshund we named Marshall.  Marshall didn’t live long, dying after a botched neutering.  Tina and I were heartbroken and not in the best frame of mind.  So a few days later, we went to a pet store and bought a crazy little boston terrier that the girl who worked at the store had named “Taz.”  We renamed him “Archie.”

Archie was a difficult puppy, but this is not unusual for male boston terriers.  They have a generous spirit and a kind, easygoing manner, but they are full of energy.  They get bored easily, and they love to destroy things.  But they are equally gentle and loyal.  Boston terriers aren’t right for everyone — like all purebred dogs, they have their quirks.  But Archie was right for us.

I remember at the height of my despair  one early walk I had with Archie.  I was still grieving the loss of the first dog and wondering if this new puppy was a mistake.  We were on the path behind our apartment at the time, and suddenly he stopped, closed his eyes and felt the warm sun on his face.  Then, he sniffed the warm spring air, took a deep breath and sighed.   Suddenly I realized what was happening — he was enjoying the world, the sun, the beautiful weather.

As someone who had previously only owned dachshunds, I was pleasantly surprised — dachshunds are difficult breed, high strung and obsessed with their owners.  But here was a dog that was taking it easy, enjoying the day.  It was this moment that my bond with Archie began, when I realized that his crazy puppy phase was just that –a phase.  That everything was going to be okay.

He was my dog, and I loved him.

Jump forward 11 years later.  Archie, sick and failing, his time so short.  I had no inkling of what his death would really mean to me — how intertwined he was in my life.  My whole daily schedule was centered around his needs — walks, feedings, walks.  He slept with me every night, burrowed into the space behind my knees, warm and comforting.  What would my life be like without him, my friend, my companion, my faithful dog?

Unable to walk, Tina held him on the floor in my mother’s house, our daughters flanking her,  saying their goodbyes.  I was in the kitchen, desperately trying to replace his bedding for what I knew would be his final trip in the car — my mother and I were taking him to an emergency animal hospital to have him put to sleep.

Just as the girls said their goodbyes, Archie looked into Tina’s eyes, and she would later tell me that she saw that he was saying goodbye to her.  And then his eyes rolled back into his head, and his labored breathing ceased.

“Oh my god,” Tina said.  “He’s dying, I think he’s dead.  Come quickly.”

I rushed to her side, but I was too late.  My dog was dead.  Gently, I lifted him from her arms, and placed him inside the crate on the fresh blanket.  His body was limp and still, completely at rest.   I thought about that crazy puppy so long ago who loved to feel the warm sun on his face.  And I felt the vacuum his death had opened in my life.  Never again would we walk through the streets of Adams Morgan together, across freshly fallen snow, the white streets silent and empty except for him and me.

And no longer would my beloved dog be by my side at all times — no matter what, Archie made sure I was never alone.

Now, I tell the girls the story of Archie’s life, as we try to help them make sense of his death.  Anya understands, she knows he’s not coming back.  She avoids talking about him.  But Rachel doesn’t quite get it — she thinks he’s just somewhere else, waiting to rejoin us.  And maybe she’s the one who’s right.  Maybe he is out there waiting for us, waiting for me.

I know this isn’t true.  But I like to delude myself.  Maybe someday, Archie and I will walk Florida Avenue again and stop at every tree.  Maybe he will ride along side me again when I move the car on Thursday mornings for street cleanings, and maybe when it’s late at night and I’m sad and alone, he will be there to comfort me.  To tell me in his quiet way that everything is okay.  We are a pack, a family, and we are together.

Tina’s out tonight setting up her Artomatic installation, while I’m at home with the girls.  Rachel and Anya are running around the house with buckets on their heads, singing the tune to “Here comes the bride.”  It’s kind of funny.

My dad, who died in 1993 and never heard of the Internet, is listed on a Web site of dead Airforce airmen.  There are pictures, which are credited to my mother.  It’s strange to see him there.

Sorry it’s been a million years since I blogged — I’ve been working on a film treatment, redesigning a Web site at work, and even finding time to play Grand Theft Auto IV. But I’m procrastinating fiercely at the moment, so I’m taking the time.

I am sorely depressed about the election. I used to read political news all day long at work as it dripped into me via an RSS reader, but now I mostly ignore it. I am convinced now that Obama is toast — it’s like all the people in American who didn’t want him to be President found their excuse with Reverand Wright, so all they do is blah blah blah on and on and about it in the media to the point that the words Obama, Reverend and Wright all blend together and form one pastiche of a human being. One would think that Obama and Wright are the same person, or that Wright is running for office. It’s insane.

George W. Bush was never held to account for any of his dubious associations, nor has Hillary Clinton. There’s a double standard at play here — a standard that only applies to Barack Obama.

So anyway, that’s why I’ve been avoiding the election.

GTA IV is awesome, by the way.

I can’t stop listening to “San Bernardino”, from the new Mountain Goats LP, “Heretic Pride,” so I thought I’d share.

There is a line you cross the moment you become a parent, it’s like your old self is some bizarre alien species.  Hearing your child (or in my case, children) cry just as they’re born is the most magical moment a parent will ever experience.  That cry — that scream of defiance against the sudden shift from the internal world of the womb to the external one — is proof that your child has been born and is wonderfully alive.

It was that moment that I crossed the line.  Rachel’s voice was first, then Anya’s.  And this song perfectly captures that moment and that feeling of change.

I just finished the seventh and final book in the Harry Potter series.

I will resist the temptation to post spoilers, for now. But what a great, beautiful book. I read half of it in five hours tonight, my head is pounding, and I’m not going to get any sleep.

But oh how it was worth it.

From MSNBC:

Dana Perino, a White House spokeswoman, said President Bush was horrified by the rampage and offered his prayers to the victims and the people of Virginia.

“The president believes that there is a right for people to bear arms, but that all laws must be followed,” Perino said.

So, why do they feel the need to invoke the Second Amendment in regards to something like this? It’s pretty puzzling. Is the Republican base so insane that denouncing a shooter who just killed 31 people has to be qualified with support for gun ownership?

Why not qualify every murder the same way: “I’m sorry your daughter was killed by a stray bullet, but I support the right to bear arms.”

It’s sad to say, but the Bush administration can even screw up attempts at offering condolences to victims of a killing spree.

Kurt Vonnegut is dead. He was 84, yet I find myself filled with a strange saddness. It’s been years since I last read his work, but his writing had a profound impact on me. “Slaughterhouse Five,” which tells the story of a man come unstuck from time and forced to relive the events of his life in random order, is perhaps one of the greatest comments on post-war America. More memoir than novel, it gets to the core of how hopeless our lives have become.

Between the news that the Bush administration has systematically turned the federal bureaucracy into a Republican patronage operation, to the endless drip-drip-drip of war news (more Americans killed by IED’s, a bomb in the Iraqi Parliament), it’s hard not to feel like we ourselves have become unstuck in time, forced into some terrible nightmare where everything we took for granted about our country is gone.

Vonnegut practically foretold the world we’re living in, possibly even more so than George Orwell. He was among the great 20th Century writers, more important than elitist blowhards like Gore Vidal and Tom Wolfe, and more humane than Norman Mailer. As withdrawn as he was from the media scene in recent years, I will miss the occasional essay or interview that would illuminate current events so vividly.

We’ve lost something great, here, and it’s sad to say that he has no true successor.

Farewell, Mr. Vonnegut.

I had high hopes for “Marie Antoinette,” but having struggled to stay awake through the most recent trailer, I am becoming considerably worried about this film. “Lick the Star” was a brilliant short film, “The Virgin Suicides” had big problems, but also great promise, and “Lost in Translation” was nothing short of a masterpiece. Sofia Coppola was fast becoming one of my favorite directors. It pains me to say that “Marie Antoinette” is beginning to look like a disaster, despite its brilliant teaser trailer. Everyone deserves a misfire here and there, but not one as lavish and costly as this stinker.

Filmrot’s recent review doesn’t exactly fill me with confidence. Have a look.

Last week (or was it the week before?), I posted about the appearance of the first issue of the Restaurant Fuel ‘zine on ebay. That lead me to begin seeking out online evidence of some of my other undertakings, including Hub City Records, the micro indie label Tina and I ran together from about 1997 - 2000 or thereabouts. Not a long time, only five releases or so, but it intensely dominated our lives.

I’ve found a number of the bands we put out on MySpace, evil though it is. It’s interesting to note that the Boyish Charms are still together. Most of the other bands we worked with, however, have either broken up, or have only a semi-active status.

In some ways, I find myself really missing the indiepop scene of the mid-to-late 1990’s. The popfests, trips to Fez in New York, not to mention taking two trips with Winterbrief. Those were great times, and although I think it’s better now that Tina and I are producing our own work, rather than publishing the work of other people, I do miss being part of that community.

Listening to some of our old records, I’m surprised by how much I still like them. I’d like to figure out some way to get them back in print online, but I suspect it may involve securing permission from the various artists involved. That may be too much trouble, but I really wish more people could hear these records. Some are still available online from various vendors, I even found a seven-inch single for sale on a Japanese music site. That was a nice surprise.

Resurrecting the Hub City catalog is probably a longshot, but I’d hate for these songs to just die. I may pursue this after my writing projects are all finished.

The first four pages of “The Alberic Heresies” #1 are now available. This is the comic book that I wrote with artist Jacob Warrenfeltz. Click on any of the thumbnails below to take a look.

The comic is available for sale at albericheresies.com.