Wednesday, June 23, 2010

Guest Blogger - Mike Blas from Black Queen Speaks

A very good friend of mine is the lead singer in a band called Black Queen Speaks.  I've plugged them before and if you haven't had the distinct pleasure of seeing them live, I highly recommend you do.  I mean it, book the first available flight to Houston, TX and post up til their next show.  Your face will be rocked the eff off! And in case there is ANY confusion there, "Rocking Your Face Off" is a good thing.

Here is some more gratuitous plugging:

Website CLICK!
Twitter FOLLOW!
Facebook LIKE!
Myspace FRIEND! (does anyone still use this sad little engine that could do no wrong for soooo long?)

So Mike wants to start a blog.  He would like it to be linked to Black Queen Speaks but is having trouble reconciling the band agenda with the more free-form blogging world.  One fear is that blogging specifically about BQS, while it would be pertinent and interesting, would have a limited audience ultimately.  Another is that if they don't remain on point, it could muddy the waters of the brand they are steadily creating/promoting.  I recommended he do his own because the man seriously has great thoughts and ideas in that head of his and they are worth sharing. 

So I asked if I could post one of his recent writing sessions.  This particular one is the second he sent to me.  The story is sad and harrowing while infused with his quirky humor and charm.  I hope you enjoy his tale and be forewarned, Mike is much more a bleeding heart than myself. So his vibe should be entirely more endearing than some many of my posts.  Hope you enjoy and please give feed back and/or advice to Mike in the comments, I'll definitely pass them along to him.

Without further ado:
The Dog
So about 5 or 6 months ago a little tiny 25 lb girl pit bull came into my yard and just wanted to play with me.  I tried to find an owner but nobody on my block belonged to her.  I put her in the yard and closed the crapola-sorta gate...and went out.  When I got back she was gone.  "Ah," I thought, "she probably just went home."

Fast forward now, to a few days ago.

She shows up on my porch, broke into the cat food, and she's got company now. He was a super cool looking kind of big-brindled German Shepherd.  Skinny, real skinny, like crack skinny.  "Oh, why is he licking her..."

She was in heat.

I didn't yell at them.  They drank water out of the cat's bowl.  I didn't tell them to leave.  I just couldn't.  So I just go inside and assume they'll go away.  But they don't.  They totally bivouacked in my yard.  I get up and go to work and they're still there.  I feed the cats and fill the water dish outside.  I was {ahem}working from home, doing paperwork that didn't necessitate me...wearing pants.  I look outside, there's another one.  He's a pit bull.  A giant ripped,, he's not ripped.  He's just Skeletor emaciated thin and old.  Oh my God.

He was trying to hump everybody.

Lumbering dangerously, giving no thought at all to whoever could be in heat or was actually in heat, he tackled them both repeatedly.  They just weren't really trying to avoid him and he was almost collapsing his huge body against them.  It was gettin gdramatic and I could not let it go on.  I grabbed Little Miss Giant Vagina and put her inside.  I have tile and hardwood floors.  Who really cares at that point?

I go back outside.

Walking to the hose I turn it on.  German Shepherd has taken to sleeping under the porch.  It's hot as the hell of somebody nasty's balls down there.  Smirking to myself, the hose was positioned right over where he's sleeping.  He gets a little wet before he snake-crawls out again and takes off.  Grandfather of the first pit follows suit.

They came back 10 minutes later.

I'm feeling all freaking protective and I grab a broom.  Sheppy's gone in a flash.  A stiff word to him sends him running quick.  He's a good-looking dog.  Grandpa doesn't move.  He's got that big abused pit trait where he doesn't look at you like you're anything.  He's hard, hard as a fucking rock.  Aren't we supposed to own our property?  Should I let a dog actually stay in my yard when he's not *my* dog?

I took a broom and jabbed him with it.

It wasn't very hard.  I thought the dumb asshole would just make like Shep and split.  He didn't move.  He really couldn't.  He was on the porch and since his nails were like 3 inches long, thick and curling around, he couldn't walk much on the porch.  I poked him again. {grrrr}. I'm an asshole.  I poked him again.  .  This thing is older and more messed up than I'd ever seen any dog; mangy, ribs defining his torso, arthritic...

But he's big.

I was new to this guy and wasn't sure of his lunging capabilities.  He looked like he could bite.  BUT HE GROWLED AT ME IN MY OWN YARD.  Walking to the end of the porch I picked up a big, metal, heavy chair and hold it like a lion tamer.  I take that back.  It was like my Spartan shield.  I used the broom like a spear/half-of-an-American-Gladiator's-staff.  Backing out of the yard, he trundled away.

To clarify,

I didn't hit Grandpa Dog with a chair.  I kinda bulldozed him trying to not actually touch him for fear that he would kill me.  That's done.  I'm dressed by now and I got places to go.  I head out and come back around 5:30.  Nobody's there except Shep.  I calmly open the door and they have a reunion.

"Get out of here!"  I yelled.

They took off, playing with each other.  I closed the crap-gate again.  "Maybe they wouldn't come back?"  I settled into playing video games for hours until I hear a dog yelp in pain.  And then Paulie, my neighbor, was home and said,

"Damn, Mike, there's a pack of dogs outside."

I go outside and there is a freaking pack of dogs outside.  Some with collars, some without, but they are all doing some kind of pre-funk before the dog orgy.  There was a white one.  Think skinny wiry "The Shaggy Dog."  Hovering near and attacking anyone who came closed to the lady of the night was a stocky but quick Chow mix.  Shep was kinda just walking around everybody in a circle.  Gramps was trying to hump people but everyone was way to fast.

Most importantly, they were surrounding a young lady, human this time, by the name of Jenni.

She was on her cell phone talking to someone.  "What do you think I should do?" "Do you think I should bring it home?"  "Maybe I can get Dad to take her, just until I find a pit bull rescue."  "She's so sweet."  We introduced ourselves, told the above story .  She kept calling people.  Everybody told her, "Don't take it home." "Don't take it home."  She's got a dog, she tells us.  Her dog might freak with another dog, much less a pit bull.

"I have to do something." she said.

"I know there are pit bull rescues." "I can't take her to (undisclosed lost dog agency) because they kill pits no matter what." "She's so sweet."  The pit had those big doe-y eyes.  Like Bambi eyes.  She was tiny.  Surely she couldn't be a monster.  Chow-Chow started bumping Miss Humpstress afer he had asserted his dominance over the other dogs.  It was strangely like the guys in Night at the Roxbury.  She was looking tired.  Lying down on the long, unkempt grass on the corner she went completely submissive on her side.

"I'll watch her," I said.

"I'll watch her if you find her a place to live."  She agrees.  We exchange contact information and she left.  I take "Daisy," as I've just decided to call her, inside.  All's well, I set up a spot for her, close up the house and fall asleep.  I wake up sporadically during the night to hear dogs barking outside.  At one point I hear a dog screaming in pain for about 5 seconds.  I run outside but there aren't any dogs on the street.  I can still hear them barking from all directions.

Shep got mauled.

He was looking okay until I noticed dirt clumps on his neck.  I call him over, he trusts me just enough.  His neck and the other side of his face have patches of fur missing where his skin was torn.  I made him sit still while I put some Neosporin on it.  It came into my mind.  His name's Cooper.

Jenni threw down, on Facebook and the rescue research.

Before the end of the day she had contacted every shelter in Houston, sent a note to friends an I go to bed pretty confident.  The next day around 5 pm she posted that "Lady Raw Raw," horrible name, had been adopted.  Her name is Daisy.  LOL.  She calls me and lets me know that Daisy had a spay appointment the next morning and that she would take her tonight.  Tons of Jenni's friends committed to donating the money.


I drop off Daisy at Winter Street Studios where Jenni works.  I go home.  I had to sneak Daisy out when I took her.  Cooper, Grandpa and Shaggy will follow us if they see us go.  "Now that I'm back," I thought, "what am I going to do with this dog food?"  I took Daisy's chew-toy-bone out and give it to Cooper.  He takes it and comes back five minutes later.  I pet him.  Grandpa is laying in the dirt in the driveway.

Fuck it.

I grab the cats spare water dish, my old dog's old food bowl.  Filled to the brim I put it down in front of Cooper.  I place my hand on his head and he closes his eyes while I slowly scratch him.  These dogs have fleas, ticks, mange...I don't care.  HE soaked up that love like the Sahara.  I know that feeling the love is more than food and water.  I understand how hope and faith in love can be lost.  I can't save everything but I'm going to save this guy.

And then I look at Gramps.

He's still scary with his vacant eyes.  I walk over to him with a handful of food.  I place it on the ground in front of him.  He sniffs.  He takes a bite.  he immediately stops eating and his eyes literally changed.  They went all doe-y, just like Daisy's.  He limps over to me and puts his face right up to mine and licks my ear.  I start petting him.  His skin is the worst.  I still haven't touched his butt, it's beyond mangy.  But I'll scratch the shit out of his head.  And his shoulders.  I'll rub his ribs.

It's been two days and one of my neighbors was starting to get annoyed.  I mowed his lawn for him today and somehow I think that'll buy me some more time with my refugees.  Shaggy is the biggest lover of all.  He's definitely the weirdest but I don't see why he can't be in a good home.  As soon as I touched him he wouldn't let me out of his sight.

I named Gramps, "Joe," but only Tim Cummings will think that is funny.

My name's Mike Blas and I am the vocalist in Black Queen Speaks.

Anybody need a dog?  I got three and I'll even neuter them for you.  I'll probably put Joe to sleep.  Anybody know how to get a giant pit-bull that will bite to the vet?

I can't call the doggy cops on him.  I don't want his last moment to be harsh.

Friend my band on Facebook and let me know.  I can do the dog stuff.  It's the bureaucracy that messes with me.

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