I don't know how to say this...

It's horrible. It's embarrassing. But I can't keep it to myself any longer. I need help. The thing is...

*sigh*

I think my dog is a racist.

Those of you who have met my dog know that there is almost nobody that Fritz doesn't love. I mean love. He loves people so hard that he thinks the only way he can express his feelings for them is by sitting on top of their collarbones and tasting the inside of their mouths. He gets so excited to see perfect strangers that his butt swings back and forth so hard, I'm afraid he might dislocate a hip. He is friendly to a fault. He has almost no concept of stranger danger. If we ever lose him, I'll just assume he went home from the dog park with, like, anyone else. Because he would.

Unless that person is of one particular race.

It's solicitor season, I guess. Recently, we've had a few young people come to the door and try to sell us magazine subscriptions. Rob mentioned to me that a couple of girls who came earlier this week made the mistake of ringing the doorbell and knocking on the door—two things that cause Fritz to go temporarily insane. In these instances, it's easy to chalk his bad behavior up to his surprise. He was awakened from a nap! Who wouldn't go totally street-rat crazy if they were roused from a dead sleep by a rattling storm door, right?

Today, there was no door-rattling or bell-ringing to blame it on. My dog just didn't care for the man who was on the other side of the door. Usually my dog just wants french kiss the person on the other side of the door, but today, it seemed like Fritz wanted to eat this man's face.

"If you're dog isn't barking, then he's not doing his job," said the very kind, very understanding solicitor while I grabbed the scruff of Fritz's neck and tried to get him to lie down and stop making hell-hound sounds.

I messaged Rob right away. "I'm worried Fritz is racist," I told him.

He wrote back: "hahaha."

But seriously, what if my dog is an A-hole? Slate wrote an interesting article on how I'm not crazy and how dog racism can be a real thing. But I still don't know what to do to make him stop barking like Cujo at any member of a particular ethnic subset. It's mortifying! And it's not a good look for him.

Update
One commenter pointed out that maybe my dog just has a problem with solicitors. He definitely does, but his reaction to the other (white) solicitor who came that day seemed much less mentally deranged. And months ago, on a walk, he kept giving this poor man "warning barks" that did not seem like equal opportunity warning barks.

What to do?

1 Part Greg Laswell, 1 Part Sara Bareilles, and Just a Pinch of Magic.

Wow. Two posts in one day? Someone must have a paper to write....

Yes, I'm putting off coming up with an answer to why Theron Ware fails as an intellectual and an aesthete. And Yes, I'm still in my sweats and I haven't brushed my teeth yet today. But my friend Greg Laswell (OK, my Facebook friend) sent me a link to this beautiful song he made with Sara Bareilles. It's called Come Back Down and it's the first single from his album Landline which is due out next month. Treat your earballs to this:

Don't you love that? Doesn't it make you want to get up in your house and do the kind of twirly dancing you only do when nobody but your dog can see you? Doesn't it make you want to sing way louder than you're used to singing so your voice cracks? Here's a secret: that's what all of Greg Laswell's music does to me. I am his biggest and best fan. Biggest And Best! I feel like if he knew Rob and me in real life, we'd probably hang out a lot. Like at the Bright Spot, eating eggs florentine and talking tunes. We could swap stories about our scrappy terriers and talk about our favorite ambient percussion trends. Short of having all food taste like cupcakes, few things would make me happier than that. I wonder if he needs a drummer...or a penny-whistlist....

We have been following his every move...wait, no... his music for several years now, but I'm worried that not enough people are doing the same. Now you have no excuse.

You can snag a free download of the song on his website here.

In My Next Life: Illustrator Edition

I'm starting a new series here on this nonsense blog. It's going to be a thing where I say what sorts of stuff I would have and do and be if I were some other person in some other place at some other time. I have thought to myself "I wish I did that" so often that I figured I should make a thing of it on something I actually do do ... meaning this blog, not doo doo. (Wackity schmakity and so on).

Today's edition is all about illustrators. It was inspired by a couple of baby books that have come into Yolk over the past couple of weeks. Some clever book-nerds out there (Jennifer Adams and Alison Oliver) made a Jane Eyre counting book with some of the most enchanting images that I've ever seen in connection with a Brontë. Check this out...

They also do Pride and Prejudice, Romeo and Juliet, and a Shakespeare ABC book called Y is for Yorick. You can see the covers here. And you can see some of Alison Oliver's other work here. My child-bearing friends should not be surprised if they receive these as shower gifts from me.

Now, as a grad student of the literary persuasion, I'm sort of ashamed to admit that I've never actually read Jane Eyre (she said as she cringed, took cover under a pillow, and waited for the blows to rain down on her head like so many fire darts). But I've heard people talk about it so many times that I feel like I could write a screenplay. The same goes for Moby Dick and the last half of Anna Karenina. What? Lots of English teachers haven't read really important classic novels.

All of this leads me to my conclusion that in my next life, I will continue not reading many classic novels. Instead, I will do fun, colorful, graphic illustrations of classic novels to help babies get the gist of them. Because in the end, isn't the gist of Jane Eyre good enough?

Procrastination Station

Every time I have to finish a book that seems so long that a speed-reading super hero couldn't finish it by Christmas, I get a bug up my butt about this blog. So I wasted two hours futzing around with it today. Now I'm mad at myself because I still have roughly a million pages to read in The Octopus, which is actually an awesome book you should read, and I still haven't taken a shower. My dog and I have just been snuggling on the couch, breathing on each other, and stewing in one another's stinks. I know how aroused you must be. Try not to make love to your computer screen.

Then I think about this blog. I'm bad at it. My last post was three weeks ago. I post some nonsense, and then I pat myself on the back, and then I wait for my check for $0 from the Internet, and then I completely forget I even have a blog. Plus, during my two-hour life-wasting session today, I discovered that there are really only two schools of lifestyle bloggers: the super-stylish/so-hip-it-hurts/graphic-designer-artist-photographer/beautiful-person kind that makes me feel bad about myself, and the kind where you give everyone in your family a code name and post pictures of all your meals, outfits, crafts, and naked babies. Not that either of these types are bad, just that neither of these types are me.

Here's the truth. Are you ready? OK. Me, too. My life is not interesting enough for you to want to read about it. So what are you still doing here, mom? 


I don't have any babies to take pictures of. But I do have a picture of this cookie...

which I had to buy last Tuesday when I was working at Yolk so that I could go spy on Joseph Gordon-Levitt at LAMILL. I didn't want to look like a total psycho, so couldn't walk out of there empty-handed.

It was delicious. But perhaps (and Rob and I agree on this) not as delicious as Joseph Gordon-Levitt.

Give Brandon the Finger!

When I was in high school, my best friend was a dude. He was a cool dude with rad hair and and sweet skate shoes and, most awesomely, he played in rock bands. After high school, he became this insanely magnificent classical guitarist (in addition to being in this sweet band) and I couldn't be more proud if he had learned to conjure bacon strips out of thin air.

Problem is, he sliced his right index finger off in a tragic table saw accident. I know. It's dreadful. It makes me scrunch my face and clench my thighs when I think about it. But since he's such a stud, he's been playing the guitar this whole time anyway. And now he's got this cool music career and this beautiful wife and all he needs is a prosthetic finger so he can get back to playing all the crazy, fingerpicking tunes he played before.

And you can help!

Go this blog, head over to the donate page, and send Brandon some ducats to buy his $3000 "carbon-fiber finger fragment". Please. It would be so very decent of you. If you're anywhere near Salt Lake City, you might could even go to the Give Brandon the Finger Benefit Concert (more info on that here).

Thanks for always helping my friends. You guys are the best.

¿Como se dice "gluten-free" en Español?

Picture this:

Me, doing my teacherly duties and discussing current food trends with my students: gluten-free diets, veganism, freeganism, foraging, local food movements, and the like. It takes me a minute, but I realize that they are just staring at me, glassy-eyed.

"Wait...you guys do know about the these food trends, right?" I ask.


Nothing.

"Where do you all shop? Whole Foods? No way. Nobody shops there. Too expensive. Trader Joe's? Ralph's? Vons?"

Nothing.

Then one girl says, with excessive matter-of-factness, "We shop at Mexican stores". And they all laugh.

Duh. I have never felt so white.


"Wow. You guys. I feel so white," I say and they laugh.

"I feel so Mexican" says the same clever girl.

It kills.

Fade out.

Jack and White: Cute Overload

My journalism career was a flash in the pan that I usually view with mixed emotions. On the one hand, I was happy to see it go (Hollywood journalism did not grab my writerly ta-tas, if you will). But on the other hand, I sometimes miss being Gretta Parkinson, intrepid girl reporter to the beautiful people. Just kidding. What? Who said that? Did it just get hot in here?

The most fun I did get to have back in my scrivener days was while writing features for Eliza Magazine (super cool project, IMhumbleO) which is helmed by the painfully stylish Summer Bellesa. One of these features was a cover story on Brooke White. Perhaps you've heard of her? She's only, like, the most precious, bespectacled, blondie in the American Idol-alum Sea of Great Talent. And can I just say to you, she is as lovely and pleasant and eye-squintingly shiny as a person could possibly be. Truly! A real treat.

Not that she's had a lot of time these days, what with her music and and entertainment career (Girls With Glasses, anyone?), but this week, she's releasing the EP for her new project Jack and White. Check out their new video for Night After Night:



I'm not going to lie...I'm a little bit of music snob. But let me tell you what I hear: a super sing-able hook and two ultra-blendable voices. I love the way Jack and Brooke sound together—almost like the harmonies are coming out of the same sqwak-box! And I'm pretty in to the indie pop/male-female duo sound myself (what can I say? Maybe it's because it matches my own pipe-like dreams...). To me, these kids are a bit reminiscent of Pomplamoose or the Weepies, but with their very own raw, Jack and White-ish edge.

Check out their Youtube page yourself and give them a listen. Then let me know what you think in the comments. I mean, if you want. It is a free country, after all. Alls I'm saying is, you might just love it so hard that your cheeks get sore from all the grinning.