Javi, Looking Fabulous

This weekend, give thanks for greyhounds!

CalGAP will be at two events on Saturday, Nov 28:

• Petsmart Costa Mesa, 10AM – 2PM (map)
  
• Petsmart Tustin, 11AM – 3PM (map)

So today I traveled like most of the United States will, to get back home for the Thanksgiving Holiday. I however chose to leave early inthe morning catching the 9:30 bus to Boston. This was a good choice on my part. We had very little traffic and I did not have to sit next to anyone on the bus, having plenty of room to myself. I have been taking this ride for about 10 years now so I am kind of a pro.

Now the Port Authority was not crowded at all bit South Station in Boston, that was a different story! Absolute madness. The line ran from the doors to the buses to the central circulation area. Not only do these people have a long wait to get onthe bus, but the ride on the bus will be HELL! well that’s what 10 years of Greyhound experience brings to the game of holiday travel.

Wednesday, October 15th
Woke up the next morning essentially to John screaming, “ROYGBIV, WHY WOULDN’T YOU LET ME SLEEP???” Haha. Probably one of my favorite lines someone has said to me! So funny. Personally I slept soooo well, like a baby! But I guess no dice for James and John. We eat pastries and mofe at a nearby place, and I have no money really, so I’m going to eat the leftovers from IHOP the previous day, which had been in the pretty cold car, but the Nurses guys literally will not let me! I mean, it really did LOOK scary, but I’m quite certain it wouldn’t have made me sick! Because I’m Chinese! C’mon now! John insisted on giving me a half a bagel instead, though. Whatever. Busters.

John trying to sleep in the car after not sleeping the previous day…

We stop by a truck stop and try to get poutine, butttt…………………….. we’re deciding between spaghetti sauce poutine and another kind, because we figure gravy poutine isn’t vegetarian. Turns out spaghetti sauce poutine wasn’t vegetarian here, either. Shoulda known, considering it was a truck stop. Ah, well, Aaron and I eat it anyway. Also eat some ketchup potato chips since it was the guys’ first time eating them, and 3 out of 3 Nurses agree that ketchup potato chips are fucking awesome!

We get to Toronto and I don’t really remember the rest of the trip there because I didn’t write down notes like I did for the other days. Oops. The Drake Hotel is a nice ass venue, like the fucking Doug Fir, kinda. I get a payout this evening, woo!! Eat fries and gravy for dinner next door at some place.

Their friends from Toronto — bunches of them — and some guys from fucking this one band I forget at the moment — oh yeah, Born Ruffians — are there. I run the merch table a bit. Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

We eat poutine afterwards, and it’s derish. But my diet that entire day consisted of, potatoes, potatoes, and more potatoes!! So horrible!!!

—

Thursday, October 16th

Aaron and I stay with Luke of Born Ruffians that evening and James and John stay with another friend. We have to meet the guys at the van at 8:00am. SOOO EARLLLLY.

Aaron’s cold morning blanket pose.

They have to load their gear and all this junk this morning… James is still rendered sickly dead in the car all the while. Haha.

So, I have the day in Toronto, and they head off to Chicago after we get some coffee. Le Loup guys happen to show up at the same coffee place!

I head over to some coffee shop and do some work and hang out for the morning. Then I start walking around. I plan my day around — having to go to the Greyhound to drop off my backpack, then going to Medieval Times in Toronto! Hail yes! Throw in some mentally destablizing events, and it was a bit of a blur of a day.

The walk to Greyhound and back is mostly unexciting, but on the way to Medieval Times was pretty decent…

This park was amazing. The lawn was like barely ever walked on, I guess, so everything was covered with teeny tiny spider webs which were gleaming in the sunlight since the sun was going down. AMAZING! Seriously, one of the cooles things I’ve seen ever, although I couldn’t document it well with photos.

This is some weird club.

Medieval Times, outside!

Medieval Times hand dryer?!

Medieval Times, inside! It was a bit weird being in Medieval Times all by myself since everyone was with groups of people, but um, whatever.

<img src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_RqrWKVC07xM/Stt3Z9rw0wI/AAAAAAAAVss/Cf-84LodrK8/s512/DSC_0360.JPG"
The yellow knight was the knight on my side of the room, and he was hilarious. His crowd was easily the loudest, but best of all, he had this dopey Keanu Reeves smile going on. LOVE IT!

KING!

Some epic shit, no?

The veggie plate I got for dinner was way better than what the meat eaters got. It had hummus and pita, a corn kabob I think, some potatoes, etc. etc. There were some girls next to me who got it but didn’t know what hummus was! WTF! MMM, craving hummus… the meat eaters got like. Ribs. And chicken wings. Like… zero veggies. It’s kinda ridiculous…

I had to leave the show early, and headed to the Greyhound to catch my late night bus to Montreal!

OTHER TORONTO POST (WRITTEN WHEN IN TORONTO) HERE!

Poppy, who went missing outside the Dogs Trust in West Calder

 

By Cara Sulieman

A GREYHOUND has made a mad dash for freedom as she was being moved to a re-homing centre.

Poppy had been looked after by a local charity for the last three months and was on her way to the Dogs Trust re-homing centre in West Calder when she slipped out of her harness and ran away.

And now Lois Sinclair – who rescued the two-year-old pooch – is desperate to find her and help her get the happy home she deserves.

As the black greyhound is frightened of people, the charities are asking for people to call in any sightings of the pup rather than try and catch her themselves.

“Sweet but nervous”

Lois is so determined to find the ex-racing dog that she said she will go out any time of day or night to track her down.

She said: “Poppy is a very sweet little dog but nervous, especially with men.

“Although she’s nervous she trusts me and I think I am the only person she will answer to, which is why I will go out any time of day or night and try to find her if we get a sighting.”

The pooch escaped as she was being taken towards the reception of the Dogs Trust building in West Calder last Monday, and has been out in the howling winds and lashing rain ever since.

“Terrified”

Despite two sightings near Livingston and search parties going out every day, there is still no sign of the canine.

The pooch was brought to Lois after being a racing greyhound, but she doesn’t know what has caused the dog to be so nervous.

Lois said: “Poppy had been a racing greyhound she wasn’t racing anymore so she was brought to me three months ago.

“She is terrified of men so people shouldn’t approach her.

“You just don’t know what has happened to them before they come here. I don’t go choosing the dogs – I will take any dog and deal with any problems they have.

“Moving Poppy to the Dogs Trust was a chance to get some help with her behaviour to try and make her less nervous.”

“Keep eyes peeled”

Staff from the Dogs Trust have also been out searching for the dog, and are keen to find her so they can start helping Poppy with her behavioural problems.

Susan Tonner, manager at the West Calder re-homing centre, said: “Poppy is terrified of strangers, particularly men, so is likely to be hiding in a secluded spot without access to water or food.

“As she’s so scared of people we think she will stay away from built up areas, but we’re asking the public to keep their eyes peeled and check their outhouses and sheds for her.

“She is black but has white paws and a white ‘bib’ on her chest.”

Any sightings of Poppy should be reported to Dogs Trust on 01506 873459 or Lois Sinclair at Gracehounds on 07989 963556.

See more of our pictures at our Flickr site and videos at our dedicated channel,  Deadline TV.

We had Phantom just over two weeks when we had learned from a friend about GIG, Greyhounds in Gettysburg.  This annual event held at the Outlets in Gettysburg sounded like fun.  Check out www.greyhoundsingettysburg.com for more information.  We went, not really knowing what to expect, but found out there are a lot of greyhound folks out there!   We shopped, we talked, we learned so much that day.  We finally met Peggy (PG group founder) and Phantom got to visit with his foster family.  Since this was a greyhound event, Phantom was spoiled so much that day.  He got new toys, a coat and treats!  We enjoyed our day and I think he did too becuase after we got home Phantom slept and slept and slept some more.

Advertising Age magazine just named BoltBus one of “America’s Hottest Brands.”

Not knowing who this company was or why it was so hot, I had to investigate.

First, some background.  In March 2008, BoltBus was launched in the Northeast United States, and currently operates roundtrip service to New York City or Washington, D.C. via four markets:  New York City, Boston, Philadelphia (including Cherry Hill, NJ) and Washington, D.C. (including Greenbelt, MD).  BoltBus, headquartered in Secaucus, N.J., is a division of Greyhound Lines, Inc., operated in affiliation with Peter Pan Bus Lines.

Apparently, Greyhound’s objective was to target urban professionals, college students and commuters traveling on the popular Northeast corridor, and to penetrate a segment of the market known as “Chinatown buses” (provide curbside service from one city’s Chinatown district to another). 

Here’s what’s interesting about BoltBus from a marketing perspective:

• In order to jettison any Greyhound “baggage” that might prevent the success of the new enterprise, the company created a new brand;
• To reduce operating costs associated with being located in city bus terminals (building and labor overhead), BoltBus adopted a curbside pick-up service model.  In other words, the bus stops at designated street locations similar to intra-city bus service;  
• BoltBus offers free wireless internet access and seat-back electrical outlets, perfect for today’s connected travelers, plus extra leg room;
• BoltBus has a unique pricing scheme, in which seats start as low as $1 and then are priced according to demand;
• You can order your tickets in advance on-line, or buy them right at the bus;
• There’s a frequent traveler, loyalty program.

Greyhound used California ad agency Butler Shine Stern & Partners to help create the new BoltBus brand.  For the marketing launch, BoltBus worked with key, urban bloggers and utilized media relations outreach to create awareness and demand.

Headline For Marketers:  Brand extension is over-used.  Don’t be afraid to create a new brand if your new product or service has a different target and positioning. Yes, it’s more expensive to launch a new brand than to piggy-back on the current brand, but the idea is to be successful and win in the market, not to save money.  Remember to make sure you fully evaluate branding options when you start your next new product development project.

Blogger Harvey Chimoff, a cross-functional marketing leader, relies on a special blend of pragmatic strategy, vision, organization, and action to achieve marketing and business results.  Click here for more information or contact Harvey at hchimoff@att.net.   

- 20. november

Afsked er altid fyldt med følelser. På vej ud af Albuquerque med kurs mod Los Angeles består de følelser af zzzZZZZZZz…

Træthed, primært. Vi er nu nået til Los Angeles efter endnu en tur med Greyhound-bussen. Jeg vil kun fortælle om en enkelt oplevelse fra busturen. Efter at have krydset grænsen fra New Mexico til Arizona, steg grænsepolitiet om bord ved det første stop i staten. To mænd i uniformer og med kasketter gik bussen igennem og spurgte hvor de rejsende var fra. Tre-fire gutter kunne ikke vise tilstrækkelig dokumentation og var meget sparsomme med at forklare sig på engelsk og blev derfor bedt om at stige af bussen med deres bagage.

Sprint for frihed

Alt foregik i rimelig ro og orden, indtil den ene pludseligt besluttede sig for at efterlade sine tasker og spurte for frihed. Mens de rejsende heppede ham af sted med tilråb som ”go, go, go” og klapsalver, spænede han hele vejen over busholdepladsen med et stort grin over hele ansigtet, og en betjent fra grænsepolitiet lige i hælene. Om ikke for hans lovlydighed, kan man rose ham for at flygte med en frisk attitude, selv om det perspektiverne så rimeligt kortsigtede ud med få egnede gemmesteder i den lille by. De andre blev kropsvisiteret og gennet ind i grænsepolitiets biler, stadig i rimelig ro og orden. ”Jaja, vi ser dem alligevel igen om et par uger,” kommenterede den ene betjent, da en af de andre rejsende bad dem om at behandle de illegale respektabelt.

Desværre…

I mellemtiden kørte en anden af bilerne efter flygtningen for at hjælpe betjenten der havde sat efter ham til fods. Det lykkedes grænsepolitiet at fange ham og bringe ham tilbage i bilen. Det eneste offer i hele maskeraden led betjenten der havde sat efter flygtningen til fods, og det var kun af materiel karakter. Han vendte tilbage uden kasket. Hvad der er hændt med kasketten, er desværre en løs ende som fantasien må håndtere. Mit bud er at han har smidt den i arrigskab og trampet den til laser.

On a long six hour bus drive back home from upstate new york, I had the luxury of a WiFi enabled ride. I was in awe when I clicked on my iPod Touch and discovered that I could connect to the internet.

I just didn’t think it would be possible to have WiFi while your moving, especially in the hills and mountains  upstate. I must say I just accepted the terms of agreement for the Coach USA service (no service fee) and I didn’t experience any connection failure or interruptions.  I had full connection the whole way.

Time quickly passed by as I read articles on The New York Times website, checked my email and even sent a few messages on Facebook.

Coach USA and Greyhound are two bus services that I know that offer this technology to its riders. Not all the buses have WiFi capability, it is only certain ones. I have traveled numerous times on ShortLine buses from Coach USA and this was the first time I had the ability to use WiFi. I definitely think this will change the way people travel.

I am still really curious how they make the WiFi on the go work. How do you not lose signal while your in motion?

Photo:http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Hf2eq8r3SSQ/SGFqCI0PmGI/AAAAAAAAAVU/26q30aGdrbg/s400/The%2Bfuture-Bus.jpg

#2009.11.16（一）
早上搭公車再轉Train，都在1 zone內，所以只付一次錢。
等Greyhound，看到一對日本couple，男生背著吉他，女生沒有要搭。
Greyhound搭好久，休息站買了AUD 4.4的Mocha Chill（600ml）來喝。
六點多的休息站則是Chicken Salad Sandwich（AUD 6.5），之後有中國大嬸來聊天，說她已經去了一百多個國家。走到車旁邊，發現Dennis、Penny，和宇欣已經在和日本人聊天，原來他才19歲，而且剛剛那只是朋友，真的女朋友在日本；打算住Backpackers。

發現把Kensington的電腦鎖忘了在share house。

坐了十三個鐘頭多的車，到Port Hotel已經晚上十點多，開門的是個好人奶奶，人很nice。最後我住了一間double room，室友是個有點胖胖的德國人。房間很小。

Port Hotel大概有三十間房。兩個地方有廁所；廚房有八個爐子，但是是四個四個併在一起。交誼廳就是餐桌，電視前面有沙發區。

#2009.11.17（二）
到ANZ開account，逛target、red dot，還有woolworths，買了一些東西。
回來一點多，煮了Mi goreng來吃。
發現滿多人都在等工作，工作也不是那麼好找。
稍晚去採買食材，Dennis遇到一簽的朋友，也請他們介紹工作，還向他們借車，打算讓我們去找工作。（Dennis人真的不錯）
晚上cook time，韓國人人很nice，送番茄給大家，Rudy還請我們吃西瓜。有個日本女孩吃東西很講究，還配了一杯白酒。
這裡日本人最多，再來是台灣人、韓國人。

猜拳輸了我洗碗。

#2009.11.18（三）
吃完花生醬吐司，走到crab factory，老闆叫我們或許兩個星期後再來。
接著去woolworths採買晚餐和明天lunch。
下午Gavin先帶我們到day care centre找nana，給她兩顆西瓜。
在托兒所前面經過一群阿寶（aboriginal）小孩，喊著”Go! Yellow men”
澳洲對黃種人比想像中的排斥，阿寶找到可以宣洩的出口大概就是黃種人了吧？！
接著開到農場開始找工作。
不太順利，很多農場都是空無一人，只有狗。
有個草莓園的主人還很機，”You didn’t see the NO JOBS sign? There is no jobs unless you’re good looking.”

晚上我做了牛絞肉丸子，哇哈。

接著我去Dexter、Patricia的桌子聊天，Patricia長得很像在法學院看過的某個女生（很老套）。Patricia先到紐西蘭當了一年背包客（WH），在澳洲也是新人；家住宜蘭。Patricia說Thomas會衝浪，汽車上有板（後來證實是誤會一場，衝浪板只是買二手車時就一直在車上）。
猜拳又輸又洗碗。

接著Dexter要到backpackers’ night找Gyro，拿東西給他。我就跟著去了。那家店叫做”Thirsty Camel”，店不大，大概五十多坪。裡面有白人、阿寶、日本人，還有台灣人。
靠近台灣人那桌（除了Gyro外都是女生，共八人），目光一掃，看到一個很甜的女生臉紅了。
坐下來看到啤酒，眼睛就亮了。我們點的是EXTRA DRY，非常甜！！！好讚喔！！！
到了Free BBQ時間，大部分的客人都排隊去拿免費食物，內容大概是吐司、蔬菜、奶油、一塊牛肉、兩條香腸。他們說今天人沒有很多。
在排隊的時候，遇到Greyhound的日本人（Jim?）。
聊到我的室友Thomas，在光頭的時候，曾經被鳥啄了一下（笑）。我說他會記帳，她們提起他是會計師。還有Thomas曾經在Port的烤麵包機旁邊用Laptop上網。
Gavin來了不久後，我們就散會，那群女生大部分是星期六就走了。

#2009.11.19（四）

早上洗澡時，發現Bikini T恤忘了在share house。
接近中午，Penny來說Gill（Tony的媽，是個很nice的grandma）提供我們三個人工作了，是西瓜。

晚餐後，猜拳終於沒輸。
晚上Gyro和Gavin搬了一箱COLD啤酒來，坐在balcony喝酒聊天。幫日本女生tomoko（男朋友是韓國人，兩人都是二簽）弄了KMPlayer。

#2009.11.20（五）
五點多起來洗澡，早餐吃得匆忙。忘了塗防曬就出門，在等shuttle bus的地方（Reception）跟Patricia借了來抹。
和我們一同工作的是德國人Sabastian，這也是他第一份工作，來了三個星期左右。
工作就是做八角形的紙箱盒子（底部是用木板，用鎚子敲釘子是一門藝術）、採西瓜，還有搬西瓜。十一點左右休息吃飯。Robbie有養狗叫做Max，臉上有很可愛的斑，還會追上來也跟去西瓜田，然後都很聰明會找陰涼處。
薪水是AUD 100/天，No tax，算下來大約時薪AUD 13，不是很好，但目前也只能做。結束後還請我們喝COLD和可樂，人還不錯，就是錢少了點。

Kara凌晨要離開，所以給她寫了留言本；拿出相機在飯廳亂照。
打給Kevin，結果還是沒有我的電腦鎖和T恤的消息；他和Jeff明天就上來Port Hotel。
晚上WIN台在播Love Actually，和室友Thomas有討論一下，他說他很愛這部。
十一點多在睡覺，接到Kevin電話，說東西有找到。YES!!!

#2009.11.21（六）
work, work, and work.
想說學一下Patricia，在農場邊做邊想事情，不料居然被Robbie嫌動作太慢。
昨晚算了一下如果工作三十天，扣掉Port Hotel的住宿費，大概可以存AUD 2000。
好累好累，突然很想把這工作做一個月後，玩一玩就回家了。
前幾天好像了解了背包客大概的形象，就是當妳安安份份的在台北工作，假日的時候參加飯局或小小出遊；背包客卻是在陌生的國度遊歷，用不是自己的母語和其他人溝通，把行李打開，然後又收起來，工作，旅遊。背包客的生活好不適合我。

晚上施振嘉打來，終於聯絡到他了。聊了一些wwoof的事。初步的想法是賺了AUD 2000左右，回Perth，飛Alice Springs，看Uluru；之後做幾次交換食宿，到東澳，或許找媽媽的朋友家看可不可以住。

Port Hotel的Tony回來了，聽其他台灣人說那夫婦叫做「沒良心的」，接駁車不等人，offer工作還有種族歧視，等等。

THIS IS SO SAD!  PLEASE CROSSPOST URGENTLY FOR THESE 900 GREYHOUNDS THAT ARE BEING DUMPED AFTER BEING RACED ALL THEIR LIVES!  IF YOU CAN HELP, CONTACT:
Joanne Kehoe Operations Director P: 312.559.0887 Or  Dairyland  Race  Track  Adoption  Center direct at (262) 612-8256

There is a group sending out requests to adopt greyhounds from a track that closing and you know what that means!…Pls send around…

“You want dogs?? They got dogs. Dairyland Greyhound Racetrack in Kenosha,  Wisconsin will be closing on 12/31/09. 900 Greyhounds need to be adopted or they will be euthanized. Please help get the word out; there are only 6 weeks to get this done. Contact Joanne Kehoe Operations Director P: 312.559.0887 Or  Dairyland  Race  Track  Adoption  Center direct at (262) 612-8256.”

Jamie McGann
McGann Media
Mailing
Address:
4816 Smoketalk Ln.
Westerville,  Ohio  43081
P-614.327.7170

Short North Office:
5 Price St. Ste. 101
Columbus,  Ohio  43201
P-225.9100 x 1
F-225.9200
E-jamiemcgann@mcgannmedia.com

Who would’ve thought it would have come so soon? We’ve passed the point where decapitation jokes are now acceptable in public places — including Greyhound.

If you not familiar with what I’m talking about, you haven’t heard the tale of Vince Weiguang Li. On July 31, 2008, riders of this bus company woke up to the sounds of Tim McLean being stabbed in the neck by Li. What followed is still unbelievable a year and a half later.

This is a horrific incident that doesn’t bode well for Greyhound. This incident left all Canadians speechless. This incident spawned rumours which included cannibalism. And now, this incident is the butt end of many bus jokes.

“I hope I still have my head when I reach my destination.”

This is just one I heard a few days ago when I hopped aboard a bus in Vancouver, Canada. Funny, eh? Not for me. Jokes like that shouldn’t be said on the bus.

What made this stabbing so terrifying was how unexpected it was. It surprised us all. When you have to find a seat, you have to choose between dozens of strangers who are packed into this sardine can with you. And sometimes you’re stuck sitting next to the creepiest looking guy imaginable.

The young man who sat beside me said he decided to share the seat because “I didn’t look sketchy.” He followed it up by saying, “Take it as a compliment.”

What is “sketchy” on Greyhound? In my opinion, the creepy men are usually middle-aged, blue collared smokers. I know they’re smokers because the aroma of tar and nicotine follows them in once they board. And on every trip, you’re guaranteed to find at least four scattered throughout this small, confined space.

What I’m getting at is any one of us could have been Tim McLean. It was just sheer luck he sat beside Li.

Even though things have slightly changed at the main terminals with a small security check, Greyhound remains the same.  So, when a middle-aged smoker cracks a decapitation joke for the whole bus to hear, it’s not funny. Some of us were startled, mainly because we had to spend the next twelve hours with the guy. But, on the other hand, some found him hilarious and wanted to hear more headless jokes while we travelled across British Columbia.

Why did they want to hear more? Because they knew they were safe — they went through that security check. But what’s really funny is on every other single stop, the dozens throughout the province, not one has a security check. Anyone could bring on a knife. Anyone could bring on a gun. Any of the hundreds that ride the bus in one night, all over Canada, could be a killer.

So, do we want to continue to crack more jokes even though there is no guarantee of safety on Greyhound? Apparently, we do. Why? Because people have poor taste in what they find funny.

We must fight against the spirit of unconscious cruelty with which we treat the animals. Animals suffer as much as we do… Until we extend our circle of compassion to all living things, humanity will not find peace. ~Albert Schweitzer, The Philosophy of Civilization

A Dying Industry

In November 2008, when the citizens of Massachusetts voted in favor of legislation to phase out greyhound racing by 2010, Humane Society of the United States (HSUS) President and CEO Wayne Pacelle stated that this action “…marks the demise of an industry that exploits dogs for entertainment and profit.” On November 12, 2009 at atown hall meeting in Boca Raton, Florida, Mr. Pacelle commented that, despite Florida’s position as the number-one greyhound racing state in the U.S. with more than 1/3 of all tracks in the country, “The good news is this is a dying industry” and that HSUS is strategically “working to decouple racing and other forms of gambling”.

The first greyhound track in the U.S. opened in Hialeah, Florida in 1926 and within two decades, dog racing had become South Florida’s biggest tourist attraction. Today, although dog racing is illegal in 34 states, the greyhound industry breeds tens of thousands of dogs each year, adding to the pet overpopulation problem for the sake of profit.

Profit with a Price

On average, racetracks keep over a thousand dogs in warehouse-style kennels, confined in small crates up to 20 hours a day, often muzzled, with little human contact. Transportation between tracks can lead to dehydration, exhaustion and even death as dogs are hauled in cramped conditions, often in unventilated aluminum trailers or rental vans. According to Care of the Racing Greyhound, an industry handbook, the primary sources for meat used to feed greyhounds in the U.S. are “…abattoirs that have commercial products of 4-D meat for Greyhounds,” adding, “The ‘D’ stands for dying, diseased, disabled and dead livestock … this meat is used because it is the most economically feasible at this time.” This is surely no way to treat “man’s best friend.”

Wonderful Companions

Did you know…?

• Greyhounds have only one coat of hair, making them virtually shed-free, odorless and less likely to trigger allergies. Their gentle demeanor makes them great pets
• Greyhounds are less likely than other breeds to have many of the common ailments associated with purebred dogs
• Greyhounds can see for up to a half-mile, can spot a black cat in the dark at 300 yards and have peripheral vision of up to 270 degrees.
• Greyhounds are the only breed of dog mentioned by name in the Bible (Proverbs 30:29-31). They also appear in the writings of Shakespeare and Chaucer
• Greyhounds were so esteemed in medieval England, the law allowed only noblemen to own them

Industrial Waste

In recent years, numerous incidences of greyhound cruelty, abuse and neglect have been well-documented in the media. Grey2K USA, a national non-profit organization dedicated to ending greyhound cruelty, states, “Thousands of dogs are seriously injured each year at commercial racetracks, including dogs that suffer broken legs, cardiac arrest, spinal cord paralysis and broken necks.” The Animal Rights Foundation of Florida (ARFF) reports, “When greyhounds do not run profitably, due to injury or age, they are of little use to the racing industry… The ‘fortunate’ ones are killed humanely. It is common for losing dogs to be shot, abandoned, or even sold for medical experimentation.” In 1992, prompted to action after the discovery of a “killing field” in Chandler Heights, Arizona where nearly 150 racing greyhounds had been shot, killed and later mutilated in order to prevent identification, Joan Eidinger began publishing Greyhound Network News. According to GreyhoundNetworkNews.org, Ms. Eidinger estimates that approximately 600,000 greyhounds were killed between 1986 and 2006. In 2002, a former Florida dog track employee named Robert Rhodes was charged with animal cruelty when the remains of 3,000 greyhounds were found on his property in Lillian, Alabama. Rhodes admitted that, for over 40 years, he profited from shooting dogs to death at the request of racing dog owners, sometimes earning $10 per kill. The Greyhound Protection Leaguereports, “Baldwin County District Attorney David Whetstone described the grisly crime scene as a ‘Dachau for dogs.’”

No-Win Situation

Racing dog owners have demonstrated that they will go to any length to win races. Grey2K USA has found that some racing dogs are given performance-enhancing drugs. They report, “In 2002, Wisconsin state officials secretly filmed a greyhound trainer injecting 11 dogs before races with a foreign substance they believed to be boldenone, an anabolic steroid derived from testosterone. In a separate case, 119 dogs tested positive for cocaine at Florida racetracks between 2001 and 2003.”

Help and Hope

Once revered as royalty by the ancient Egyptians (greyhounds were pictured on the peacock feather fans in King Tut’s tomb) but now used as slaves by the gambling industry, greyhounds deserve better. Numerous organizations throughout the U.S. are working tirelessly to end the cruelty, and you can help.

Through theGreyhound Project, Adopt-A-Greyhound.org provides a world-wide directory listing hundreds of organizations, such as South Florida-basedFriends of Greyhounds, that engage in rescue and adoption of retired racers. People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA) offers helpful information on their website and suggests writing letters to the editors of local newspapers to educate the public. ARFF suggests avoiding greyhound tracks and spreading information to friends, family and coworkers, urging them to follow suit.

Fittingly and finally, an industry responsible for so much unnecessary suffering and death is itself dying.

source: http://www.examiner.com/examiner/x-8319-Boca-Raton-Animal-Rights-Examiner~y2009m11d21-Greyhound-racing-win-or-die

I arrived in Ottawa last night after a short trip by Greyhound from Perth. It was the first Greyhound that I’ve been on with Wifi and poweroutlets for your computer… however it was also the first greyhound that I had been on where the seats were stuck in this bizarre position somewhere between recline and upright.

I tried to make use of the wifi which did work well except that, with no table or tray to place my netbook on I had to sit with it on my lap and within 2 minutes I felt horribly nauseous.

So with my netbook stowed safely back in my bag I did what I normally do on bus trips. Connect. Not with the internet, but with where I am. I’ve always loved traveling by train and Greyhound makes a not too bad alternative. I can’t work, typically can’t read, I’m not responsible for driving or navigating so I’m able to just sit for a few hours and watch the world flow past the window. I have the kind of wild, crazy mind that when I try to focus on still objects I just get frustrated and bored, but with the scenery moving past me I am both present and able to maintain my concentration. By the end of the trip I’m tired but I’ve managed to gather my thoughts and feel ready to move on with the next stage of my journey.

Lynne picked me up at the bus station and took me to the WUSC office where I hung out until the end of the work day. She had mentioned that she was having a dinner party in the evening, but didn’t mention that it was also her birthday party. Lynne lives in a condo but has this incredible table that extends and extends to accommodate a ridiculous number of people. She was grumbling that she didn’t have enough chairs, but then I pointed out that most people who live in a two bedroom apartment don’t actually need 12 chairs.

A small gathering in Lynne's Condo

I spent the evening hanging out with a really interesting and diverse group of people, including one lady whose Mom I know because she lives in Grande-Digue!

Today we caught up on sleep, I did some more work on the final edits to the book, we both tried to summarized the last four years of our lives and then Lynne treated me to some Ethiopian food. Am I glad I came? Oh yes!

Tomorrow I leave for Sherbrooke where I will be spending 3 weeks staying with Lucie and her three sons at a poultry farm and homestead. Lynne has been very patiently insisting on speaking French to me to ease me into life in Quebec (she lives on the Quebec side of the river) and I did better than I expected though it is tiring and after an hour of speaking French my tongue aches!

Yous is cookin bacon. Don’t deny it. I knows.

didju say bacon?

Picture by: dunno source Caption by: dollymom via Loldog Builder

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Like many first time greyhound owners, those first days with a new grey are exciting, frustrating and sometimes even nerve-racking.  Am I taking care of the pup ok, are they eating enough, are they “going” enough, are they getting enough play/walk time… and the list can go on.  Those first weeks we had Phantom home were just like that at times and then we also had the times when it seemed like he had been there forever.

I think the hardest time for us, both human and hound, were Monday mornings.  Dave & I were off to work, the kids were off to school and he was home alone.  I’m sure I’m not alone in saying that we always tell him “we’ll be back and to be a good boy”.  Because I only worked part-time, I was in and out of the house the most.  He would get concerned when I leave but was always so happy to see me when I returned.  (Maybe it was those treats he got when I left.)

Some of our first outings with Phantom, besides daily walks–no fence yet, were to Madison’s soccer games and practices.  Thank goodness they practiced at a park that permitted dogs.  I think Phantom brought good luck to her team.  The first game he went to they won 3-1!

About a week after we brought Phantom home, my mom came to meet him.  While she was here we took Phantom for a walk and on our way home, we ran in to Dave on the way back.  Phantom was excited to see him–tail was wagging as soon as he spotted him.

My first impression of Sydney was that it was still fairly busy at one a.m. That was about the time the bus finally arrived at the station. Gathering my belongings, I realized that I had no idea where exactly the youth hostel I had booked into was – it hadn’t looked more than three minutes away on Google Maps, but of course I’d forgotten to write down any directions, let alone print out a map. I consulted Lonely Planet, but couldn’t quite figure it out, so I just started walking in what seemed to be the approximately right direction. I was lucky: After only about a hundred meters, I found a YHA sign. Turns out it wasn’t the YHA I was looking for, but they could tell me exactly how to get there. And at least I had been right in my estimation: It didn’t take more than a few minutes to reach my hostel. I checked in – 24-hour-check-in is a great invention!! – and basically fell into my bed, too exhausted to even think about setting an alarm for the next morning.

As a result of that, I didn’t wake up until about 10.30 am – at least I felt well-rested enough to go explore Sydney. But that posed the first problem… Sydney was big, and all I had was a day… half a day, seeing as I’d slept through the greater part of the morning. I got a chai for breakfast, and a roll from a German bakery (!!!) I found next to the hostel, and sat down with my Lonely Planet, trying to decide where to start. Living in Brisbane, I’d really liked being in the middle of the city, where all the action was – but Sydney was on a different scale.  Brisbane was a comfortable size – Sydney, in comparison, was simply huge. I felt overwhelmed by all the things I knew I really should do.

Finally, I just went with what I really wanted to do. I’d talked to my friend Ellen, who’s living in Sydney at the moment, and she had suggested the Botanic Gardens and, of course, a walk over to the opera house. So that was what I did. I spent a few hours wandering through peaceful green, then sat near the water, looking at the opera house, let the sun shine on my face and ate an apple. It was great. It wasn’t much sightseeing, but it just felt right. I liked just being there.

In the afternoon I went out for coffee with Ellen and Conni. I’d last seen them several months before in Germany and it was great catching up on everything that had happened since then. We got Thai for dinner later and at night, Ellen and I went to Darling Harbour, which was really pretty at night, with all the lights, and the skyline as a backdrop. I decided then that I really liked Sydney. It’s a buzzing, energetic, amazing city, and apparently, it doesn’t sleep. (That could also have been due to the fact that it was Saturday, though.) I stayed up until way past midnight, having drinks at a hostel bar and chatting. Honestly, I’m not sure there was a better way to spend this one day in Sydney.

I was staying in a four-bedroom dorm, but there were only two others sleeping there that night. They’d had to catch a very early flight and left around 4.30 am. I didn’t hear them pack or leave. By the time I got up, I was alone, which made things easier: I could pack my stuff as noisily as I wanted to without having to worry about waking anyone up. It was only 6.30 am, so that was definitely a plus. By 7.30 am I was ready to check out, and headed towards the station again to catch another bus to Canberra…

Faulty beams of fluorescent light

Shine upon the moonbeam corporations

And the red lights of braking commuters

Burn through the dark entrails

Of the never-ending freeway.

Walmarts, In and Outs, Applebees,

Valeros and Shells and I sit,

Encased in a mean, lean Greyhound machine,

The squealing of its worn brakes

Lulls me to sleep on my rock-hard pillow

Of evergreen freshness.

We who travel at the hour at which I travel

Are lost souls bent on making one long journey

To a hopeful tomorrow.

People get lost on nights like this:

Insomnious circumlocutory time.

And through the haze we realize we

Have had one bag of Doritos too many.

This land wears its people

Like a rag-tag mish-mash

Of hopes and dreams unrealized

And one promise too many.

People are the products of this society—

The seedy underbelly clinging to a bloated beast

The grunge upon our streets

Within their hair

And a tread mark riding on every hip,

How dare the top marshals sing

That we be the land of the brave

And the free

Whilst so many are encumbered by

Their very un-freedom in the face of

Economics.

POLICE were last night carrying out a post mortem to try and establish how a pensioner died – amid fears his body could have been left lying in his council home for weeks.

The body of William Lynn, 70, was finally found by officers who entered his house in the Clermiston area of Edinburgh after being tipped off by worried council workers.

They couldn’t get in touch with him over months of unpaid rent and called in officers to investigate.

Lothian and Borders Police would last night say only that the circumstances surrounding his death remained “unexplained”.

Alarm raised

Locals claimed Mr Lynn lived in the house with his son Andrew Lynn, 40, who was recently seen walking the old man’s beloved greyhound dog.

However neighbours said the pensioner himself had not been seen in public for around two months.

Police confirmed they had spoken to the son following the find, however said they could not comment further while inquiries were ongoing.

The alarm was finally raised when a housing officer from Edinburgh City Council was unable to get in touch with the pensioner and got no answer at the property.

Neighbours in the quiet residential street said that the pair were “reclusive” and that it was normal for them to go days without seeing any sign of life at the house in Parkgrove Terrace.

“Reclusive”

Mr Lynn’s immediate neighbour, who did not want to be named, said that she had seen Andrew walking his father’s greyhound around two weeks ago.

She said: “The last time we saw Andrew was at night when we were coming home. He was coming out of the house with the dog but turned around and went back in when he saw us.

“The last we saw of Billy must have been around two or three months ago now.

“But that wasn’t unusual. They were both quite reclusive and we never saw them or spoke to them.

“Our families were friendly when the kids were younger but in the last few years it’s just been a case of saying hello in the street.”

“Downhill”

A few doors down, neighbour Peter Lockhart said that Mr Lynn’s health had “gone downhill” since his wife’s death 15 years ago.

The 72-year-old said: “Billy had lived here a long time, he was here when I moved here in 1962. I used to work with his wife Diana at the Burtons Biscuits factory.

“When she died that’s when he started to kept to himself more. I think his health went a bit downhill as well.

“But he always seemed well enough for a man of his age – he had shakes down one side of his body but he was still out walking the dog.

“Last time I saw Billy was about two months ago. I’ve seen his son about since then, perhaps three weeks after that.

“He loved his dogs – he used to have two, a black one and a grey one, but the black one barked a lot and made a lot of noise and neighbours complained so he had to get rid of it.

“He walked the dog really early in the morning. I was up a couple of times at about 5am and saw him going down the road with the dog.

“The police took it away on Tuesday when they came round.”

“Unexplained”

Police set up a command unit in the street and carried out door to door inquiries yesterday.

It was understood they are not looking for anyone else in connection with Mr Lynn’s death.

A police spokesperson said: “Police are investigating after the body of a 70-year-old man was found in Parkgrove Terrace, Edinburgh on Tuesday morning.

“At this stage the death is being treated as unexplained, with enquiries into the circumstances surrounding the man’s death at a very early stage.”

Meanwhile the discovery has caused distress among the residents of the street.

“Concerned”

One neighbour living across the street from Mr Lynn, who did not want to be named, said: “I just know Mr Lynn has died but there must be something suspicious about it or the police wouldn’t be here.

“It’s very quiet round here which is why everyone is surprised as what has happened.”

A spokesman for Edinburgh City Council confirmed that their staff had raised the alarm.

They said: “One of our housing officers became concerned when they visited the home of a tenant and raised the alarm with the police, who are now investigating the death.”

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 30 timer tilbage

Afsked er altid fyldt med følelser. Denne morgen hvor tågen endnu engang indhyller San Francisco og Bay Area i sit slør, er det sørgmodighed, lettelse og forventning jeg føler. Bussen brummer sin monotone rytme, og langs hovedvejen ligger Oaklands gader stille, som om den var en filmby før de første møder på sættet.

Turen på vej til Greyhound-stationen i Oakland var hektisk, fordi bussen ikke kunne køre over Bay Bridge der er lukket. Et stykke af broen var eftersigende røget af og havde ramt en lastbil. En acceptabel årsag efter min mening.

Alt godt og blandet

Bussen er fyldt op med en god variation af mennesker. Der er de to forfjamskede på grænsen til paniske asiatiske tøser som vi mødte på vejen. De er de ved at blive hyret af en asiatisk/mexicansk kvinde, som vil have dem til at undervise i kampsport. Det er i hvert fald hvad Casper har opfanget af historien, fra vores pladser et par sæder bag ved dem.

På sæderne foran dem sidder en stor madamme med hockeyhår og et næsten intakt tandsæt. Madammen snakker på tværs af midtergangen med en stor, nydelig skaldet mand som har med soul i stemmen. Der er noget i luften.

På den anden side af midtergangen fra os sidder en ældre herre i hættetrøje og kasket og holder et stykke papir i hånden. ”Westbank”, står der. ”My Accounts”. Sådan sidder han længe. Jeg kan ikke se hans ansigt, men jeg tænker at han tænker. Han tænker over den beslutning der har ført ham hertil, hvor han sidder og kigger på sine finanser på vej mod Los Angeles. Der er noget melodramatisk over en busrejse mellem to byer, der begge er store nok til at man kan leve et helt liv i den ene uden nogensinde at besøge den anden. Måske er det netop dét, denne ældre herre er i gang med. At slutte ét liv i San Francisco for at begynde et nyt i L.A.. Spændende.

28 timer tilbage

Madammen med hockeyhåret og næsten-tandsættet har sneget sig over ved siden af Soulman.

27 timer og 55 minutter tilbage

Madammen sidder og masserer Soulman i hovedbunden.

27 timer tilbage

Caspers spionfoto af Madammen

Landskabet omkring San Francisco er kun spændende i en kort periode. Øde områder med pletter af tørre buske kilometer efter kilometer. Rygtet siger, at det er umuligt at sælge et luftfoto af dette landskab, fordi du lige så godt kan tage et billede af et slidt gulvtæppe.

Soundtracket til gulvtæppet er en konstant brummende lyd af dæk mod asfalt. Monotonien er farlig for tankerne. Du opdager det ikke før du sidder i en dagdrøm, hvor en ældre herre er på vej til L.A. for at finde sin fortabte søn, 2 spinkle asiatiske piger sidder bagbundet i en ørken og forbander deres naivitet der fik dem til at tro at nogen ville hyre dem til at undervise i kampsport, og hvor en stor madamme og soulman dyrker vild sex på det lille lokum bag i bussen. Det sidste er ikke nemt når manden kunne have taget russerens plads i Rocky IV, og kvinden kunne have spillet hans storebror. Det er lidt som at forsøge at proppe en Sankt Bernhards hund ned i en håndtaske. Eller som to næsehorn der slås i en telefonboks.

Jeg forestiller mig stemningen der ville sænke sig over bussen. Halv pinlighed og halv fnisen. Nogle ville nok blive forargede, men seancen ville helt sikkert fortsætte til ende. Ingen blander sig i 250 kilos intens elskov. Det vil være som at forsøge at stoppe en tyr i brunst fra at knalde dine køer. Det eneste du vil få ud af det er smerter i bagklappen og en nominering til Zoofili-masochistisk Forenings årlige prisuddeling. Hvis du ikke kan modtage prisen med rank ryg, så bliv hellere væk. Hold dig væk fra det hele. Frys blikket på landskabet og tæl bakker. Der eksiterer kun bakker, dæk mod asfalt og dit dybe åndedræt. Du hører ingen unormale lyde fra bag i bussen. Det er bare søstrene Williams der spiller tennis på toilettet. Helt normalt.

Forbandede dagdrømme. Meget mere underholdende end virkeligheden.

25 timer tilbage

Buschaufføren jager os ind i bussen. Vi venter 5 minutter. Måske 10. Buschaufføren kommer slentrende ud af Burger King med en kæmpecola. Står og hænger lidt. Forsvinder ind på Burger King igen.

24 timer og 50 minutter tilbage

To nye rejsende udgør et sært par. Den ene af dem er klædt som en rig cowboy i pæn skjorte og kridhvid cowboyhat. Hans makker er beskidt i hovedet, slæber rundt på en sort skraldesæk og et vanvittigt udtryk. Store øjne og åben mund der griner barnligt og psykotisk. Han ligner én der lige har parteret en Burger King-medarbejder og følt adrenalin for første gang i sit liv. Jeg får øjenkontakt med ham, mens de møver sig ned gennem midtergangen. Jeg kigger væk 2 eller 3 gange, men hver gang jeg kigger op glor han stadig på mig med samme udtryk. For første gang på busturen er jeg glad for at have Casper med. Når han havde sat sig på sædet ved siden af mig, ville jeg have følt mig både meget utryg og forpligtet til at studere indholdet af hans skraldesæk. Men der sidder Casper heldigvis. I guder… hvad gemmer der sig i den skraldesæk? En anden del af den samme sandhed som gemmer sig i hans ansigtsudtryk? Og så hans mistænkeligt velklædte makker. Slagteren og Skødehunden. Viva la Loco!!

23 timer tilbage

Casper sidder med høretelefoner på og hører musik. Engang imellem siger han noget, som jeg er tvunget til at høre, men siger jeg noget tilbage drukner det i musikken.

- SE hvordan de krymper sig, siger Casper.

Soulman står og roder i sine ting på hattehylden over de to forfjamskede soon to be-kampsportspiger. Pigen tættest på midtergangen læner sig langt indover sin veninde. Casper er forarget. Han er blevet til Erik fra Erik og Else. Men jeg nægter at spille Else. Han har jo ret. De er sociale skeptikere. Det oplevede vi allerede da vi mødte dem i BART (metroen), hvor de tripletjekkede alt hvad vi sagde, selv om vi reddede dem fra at stige på det forkerte tog og udstrålede rolig autoritet. Det mener jeg da at vi gjorde. På den anden side er det vel sundt at være lidt skeptisk, og jeg må indrømme at jeg stadig er lidt skeptisk over for Slagteren og Skødehunden som sidder et par sæder bagude.

Vi triller ind mod L.A. Første skiftestation på turen. Soulman har netop forsøgt sig med at lægge armen om madammen, men trak den til sig igen. Åh ungdommelige kærlighed, hvor blev du af.

22 timer og 30 minutter tilbage

Hvor roller bliver afsat og sladder bliver plantet. En Café i L.A.

Los Angeles lugter af lokum. Husene er små og flade og omkranset af haver!? Alt er ligesom lavere i L.A. Selv palmerne er trykket flade, og de få der har vokset sig høje, er visne i toppen. Men det giver mening. Det er trods alt fra det luftlag, at indbyggerne suger deres ilt. Næsen i sky og benene langt fra jordbundne. Det er svært ikke at have en forudindtaget holdning til L.A. efter to måneder i San Francisco…

21 timer tilbage

Vi er på vej ud L.A. Husene og træerne er blevet større. Men det er stadig en lorteby og alle er dybt arrogante. Især manden ved billetkontrollen.

- European accent, ey. Where are you from, spurgte han og vi svarede ærligt.

- Oh that’s great, enjoy your stay, svarede han tilbage. Det var ikke nemt at fange sarkasmen, men den var der. Gemt i det store smil og de venlige øjne. Psssh… L.A.-arrogance.

Farvel kære britiske Alicia som du vist nok hed. For normal til at få en rolle i historien, men bemærkelsesværdig nok til at blive husket uden.

17 timer tilbage

Det er mørkt, men vi er stoppet et bedrøvende kedeligt sted for at samle nogen op. Et eller andet foregår, som vi er på vej til at køre. ”There was a white guy. He put his luggage under the bus,” er der en der råber til chaufføren som er på vej til at køre. Efter lidt snak frem og tilbage beslutter hun sig for at holde køreplanen. Men der kommer altid en bus mere. Med en destination mere. ”He’s gonna get on the wrong daaamn bus,” råber sen samme passagerer.

? timer tilbage

Phoenix. Stadig nat. Bussen er til eftersyn, og vi har fået at vide at vi skal tage vores ting med ud, hvis vi vil være sikre på at se dem igen. Så det har vi. Bortset fra resten af vores hjemmesmurte sandwiches der holder vores plads for os.

#!"%#& høretelefoner!

Ude blandt rygerne går snakken på I-Pods. Vi er mig, en grinende dame, en countrylegende look-a-like og et par andre. Countrylegenden vil have en I-pod. 500 terrabyte. Og han vil lære at hacke. Finde ud af hvem der dræbte JFK. Inde i ventehallen virker halvdelen af mad- og drikkeautomaterne, og det ene TV er tændt, men forbindelsen lider af digitale forstyrrelser – det moderne sne på skærmen. Der kører et komedieshow hvor den ene dame hele tiden rejser sig op og gentager sine egne punchlines i et hysterisk toneleje. Det ligner mest af alt en parodi på sig selv.

Omkring 13 timer tilbage gætter jeg på

Vores Sandwich var forsvundet. Smidt ud som skrald eller grådigt bortført.

Indtil nu har vi haft venlige, imødekommende og delvist sjove chauffører. Men nu lærer vi disciplin. Vi har fået ny chauffør i Phoenix og han er ved at gå reglerne igennem:

- Zero tolerance towards aggressive behaviour.

- Do not yell at me.

- Watch your language. No profanities.

- I repeat: Do not yell at me.

- If you’ve got nothing to say, then don’t say it.

Her er virkelig en chauffør der værner om vores nattesøvn. Bortset fra når han selv gentager alle reglerne fire gange med lyset tændt. Og når han igen tænder lyset straks efter da der er én der drister sig til snak.

Få timer tilbage

Solen skinner. Der er ikke en sky på himlen og New Mexicos bjerge toner frem i horisonten. Vi sidder på nogle sæder bag en tankstation i Las Cruces. Det er sidste skifte inden Albuquerque. En fyr på vores alder med skægstubbe og store høretelefoner om halsen sætter sig ned et par sæder væk.

- Hvor skal I hen, spørger han straks.

Albuquerque. Nå, også han. En noget yngre fyr kommer hen og spørger os hvor vi skal hen. Albuquerque. Fedt, det skal han også. Han henter sin tasker. De er dekoreret i militærgrøn camouflagefarver. Han har lige bestået Boot-Camp. ”Tillykke, ” siger jeg, selv om jeg ikke rigtigt ved om det er det rigtige ord, for jeg ved ikke hvor det fører ham hen, og hvor han gerne vil hen. Men han virker glad.

Fyren med hovedtelefonerne slutter sig til samtalen ved at spørge, om den unge gut er i militæret. ”Thanks,” siger han efter at have fået svaret og stikker næven frem. Det er vist med en blanding af høflighed og respekt.

Den unge gut er faktisk ung. 18 år. Han fortæller lystigt, om hvordan hans officerer har behandlet ham med ankelspark og anden autoritativ udøvelse. Han er glad for at være kommet i militæret, fordi han kan sende penge hjem til sin mor, far, søskende og bedsteforældre. Om nogle måneder kan han blive sendt til Irak eller Afghanistan. Gammel nok til at håndtere en M16-maskinpistol med ansvar for sit eget og andres liv, men ikke gammel nok til at drikke alkohol. Men det er jo selvfølgeligt hans eget frie valg, hvor graden af ‘frihed’ afhænger af de alternativer man har…

Men i det mindste kan han stemme på eller imod dem der sender ham i krig. Det fik dem under 21 år lov til i 1971. Men der havde dødstallene toppet, og USA var stort set på vej ud af Vietnam.

Kærester og krig

Selv om bussen er forsinket er stemningen god. Alle deler ud af alt med alt og alle, og bidder af livshistorier bliver delt. Den unge gut fra militæret har en kæreste i Santa Fe. De har været kærester i fire år og hun er også 18 år gammel.

- I don’t get her, griner han.

- I get other girls, but not her.

Det ene øjeblik lyder hun ligeglad i telefonen, men det næste øjeblik råber hun desperat for at få ham til at blive hængende i røret. Han glæder sig til at se hende.

Gutten med høretelefonerne er 26 år og har aldrig været i militæret. Han tror ikke på det. Hverken på krig eller politikere. Det fortæller han den unge gut der lytter til ham.

- Keep your head high and do your job, but don’t believe the propaganda, siger han.

Den unge mand er selv på vej ind i en potentiel krigszone. På vej til Albuquerque for at se en kvinde han har mødt på nettet. Som bor sammen med en kæreste. Og som ikke ved han kommer.

Læs om efter vi er ankommet til Albuquerque: I kernefamiliens trygge rammer

An excerpt from Uncle Charlie’s Legacy.

It’s mid-December, and our first winter guests are due. Samantha and Jay, both born in Hollywood, have been visiting family there on an extended holiday, with their greyhound Harry, who came from Battersea Dogs’ Home. Before they can return to their home in London they need to get Harry his canine passport, which will mean a stay of at least six months in Europe. They have booked to stay in Pissenlit for the winter as they have never been to France and are keen to learn about rural life here, and then to Germany during the spring until Harry is able to go back to England.

I’ve lit the wood stove in Pissenlit, stockpiled a supply of logs, and put an electric blanket on the bed. Jay and Samantha write that they are hardy creatures, but Harry feels the cold. The weather is fine, clear blue skies and plenty of sunshine, but there are heavy frosts each morning and the temperature is down to near zero every night. Coming from Hollywood at this time of year, into the start of a French winter, I hope they are prepared. But I do have some misgivings.

Harry is a large golden-coloured greyhound with unbearably sad eyes, and he’s shivering despite wearing a heavy red coat with a sheepskin collar. Jay is an average-sized man with glossy black hair and a warm handshake. And Samantha is breathtaking! Six foot three, naturally blonde wavy hair down to the small of her back, perfect teeth, perfect skin, a huge smile and the longest legs I’ve seen except on a racehorse; she is certainly the most naturally beautiful woman I have ever seen. Looking at them, as they stand by the gate, I cannot see how they can possibly all fit into bijou little Pissenlit. There is Harry’s bed, for a start, a huge tartan padded nest with a thick fluffy mattress and several cushions. There is a 20 kg. sack of his special food, and a rucksack containing his toys. His drinking bowl and food bowl are both 18” in diameter. Then there are Samantha and Jay’s suitcases, six of them, plus a number of plastic shopping bags. As we trail from the car to the cottage heaving all this luggage, my heart sinks. How are they going to live for three months in a tiny cottage with all this stuff?

Priority is given to getting Harry settled comfortably. His nest, which occupies almost one-quarter of the available floor space, is laid as close as possible to the stove, his toys lined up around it, and his food and water bowls filled. He climbs into his bed, tucks his sad face beneath his bony tail, and closes his eyes. If Jay was half and inch shorter he would not hit his head on the beams. Samantha has to bend her knees and stoop over like an aged crone to pass beneath them. Upright, her head only just clears the ceiling. Gulliver must have felt like that during his stay in Lilliput.

Jay hauls their cases and bags up the stairs, leaving just sufficient room for Samantha and myself. I don’t know what to say, but Samantha is a good sport, and laughs. “Well, it’s kinda smaller than I thought, but it’s cosy. Harry’s happy. We’re gonna be just fine.” She dazzles me with her smile.

When I suggest a cup of tea, Jay burrows in one of the plastic bags and withdraws six cans of beer. “Forget the tea. Let’s celebrate!” he cries, so we huddle together and soon the cans are empty and Samantha says Harry needs a walk. I offer to show them the path that leads into the vast fields behind the hamlet, where Harry can run to his heart’s content. First Harry has to have a waterproof coat put over his woollen coat, and then his lead. He seems disinclined to leave his warm bed, but Samantha coaxes and cajoles, and with his tail clamped tight to his belly he reluctantly follows us down the lane. When we reach the field Jay and Samantha are thrilled at the sight of the wide open countryside and the fact that there is not a soul to be seen. Hollywood, they say, is hell. When Samantha and Harry are ten metres ahead, Jay clutches at my arm. “Never mention Texas,” he says in a low, urgent voice. “Samantha will throw up. We had to fly over it, and she was physically ill. It’s the worst part of that whole damned country.” “Don’t you like the States?” I ask. “We both hate it. Hate it. We’d been away so long we had forgotten what a terrible place it is. But we’re never going back again, you can believe that. The States stinks. Don’t forget – never let Sam hear the word Texas.” I promise.

Samantha throws Harry’s ball for him, and lopes down the path at a slow canter slapping her thigh and clicking her fingers, but Harry just stands there, trembling morosely. All he wants to do is return to his bed. “He’s probably jet-lagged,” she says.

I show Jay how to stock up the stove from the log pile, and he finds that if he walks around in his socks he can just scrape beneath the beam without braining himself. Perhaps they’d like to come in for a meal this evening, I suggest. They accept eagerly. I think Sam will enjoy being able to walk around upright for a few hours. Harry does not come with them; he prefers to stay in his bed by the fire, and in any case he is nervous of our dogs.

Despite having just flown across the Atlantic and driven straight down here from Paris, they are both lively and wide-awake, and amusing company. Jay talks almost non-stop, in a smooth drawl, while Sam’s voice, when she can get a word in, is deep and husky. He’s a school teacher and she works for the National Health Service. In Hollywood she had been a leg model and Jay had his own successful business. They had a beautiful home and a high standard of living, but, said Sam, no quality of life. They found it too artificial and shallow, and had emigrated to London ten years ago. Although he is American by birth, Jay spent many years living in Germany with his parents, and prefers to think of himself as German, and that’s what he tells people he is. Sam refers to herself as a Londoner. Now that they have Harry, they need to move from their flat and are just about to buy a house with a garden, which is why they decided to take a trip to the States to see their families before they have to “work their butts off to repay the building society.”

For a teacher, Jay has an unusual attitude towards children. He hates them. What the little bastards need, he says, is the lash. Good and hard. Because that’s all they respect. Given his way, he’d start their day with a routine flogging. He has twice found himself barricaded into a second floor classroom with a number of other teachers to repel an assault by several dozen “feral youths”. Sam doesn’t stand for any nonsense. When she saw a teenage yob in London, terrorising elderly people on the street with a pump-action water pistol, she had grabbed it from him, jumped on it, then picked him up by the head and shaken him. The yob had taken to his heels to the applause of onlookers. Don’t mess with this couple. Despite their rather violent tendencies, they are in fact a gentle and compassionate pair, whose interests are human rights and animal welfare, and I find myself liking them very much.

Next day they surface late morning, having slept for twelve hours. They haven’t been able to light the fire which has gone out overnight. The floor is strewn with spent matches and singed pieces of newspaper. This is their first experience of heating that is not activated by a simple switch, and they are finding it a struggle. I show Jay how to lay the kindling and fire-lighter, and get it going for them. Harry is shivering despite his thick red coat and the fluffy blanket in his tartan bed. While he is well-equipped for the weather, the same cannot be said of Sam and Jay. Apart from jeans and T-shirts, they have between them one very large drab khaki jumper full of holes, and a black and white herringbone winter coat. They have decided to walk to the village two kilometres away, taking Harry with them, to enjoy a coffee.

When they return an hour later, they seem shell-shocked.

“Did we go to the right place?” asks Jay.

I point in the general direction, and say “Just over there. A mile away.”

“Yeah. You mean that’s it? Just that small place?”

“Well yes. Just the bakery and the café. That’s all there is.”

“Oh jeez,” moans Jay. “I can’t believe that. We were expecting something quaint.”

Although it has its own charm, quaint is not an adjective that can be truthfully applied to our local village. “Didn’t you read what it says on our website about the village? That there is just a church, a bakery and a café?” I asked rather defensively.

“Yeah, sure, but we thought that there would be a few little shops as well. There was nobody in the café, and nothing to eat there except little packets of biscuits or sweets. And there’s not much in the bakery, only some kinda buns with green icing on – didn’t look too good – and some tarts filled with prunes.”

Jay looks devastated. He recalls their honeymoon in Vienna, where each morning they’d chosen a cosy coffee house to drink hot chocolate topped with whipped cream, and eat sachertorte, and the small café near their home that serves sticky gingerbread, lemon drizzle cake, flapjacks, scones with cream and jam.

They are not going to find anything like that round here. In this part of very rural France, the majority of the local population are retired farmers who pop into the bar/café for a little glass of red wine or a small cup of coffee and a chat. They don’t eat cakes. I did once ask for a hot chocolate, which was made by mixing some hot water with some pale chocolate powder and adding a little cold milk. It wasn’t very nice.

I try to cheer Jay up by telling him that just a few miles away is an English tea room where they will find a wondrous assortment of cakes and pastries, as well as an excellent selection of teas, coffees and hot chocolate. Or, if they drive up to Poitiers, they’ll find some very wonderful cakes and biscuits.

But he says that won’t be same as walking to the village each morning, with Harry, to sit in a pretty café sipping hot drinks and gorging on creamy cakes.

Reluctantly Harry goes for a walk twice a day, with Sam and Jay taking it in turns to wear the black and white overcoat which fits Jay to perfection, but looks like a reefer jacket on Samantha, with the sleeves only just reaching to her elbows, the other making do with the holey jumper. They do not have suitable footwear for trudging around wet fields, and have to hang their shoes from a nail in the beam over the stove, which Jay is still having difficulty in lighting and keeping alight.

Their shock and disillusionment about the village takes second place to their horror when they venture out at night for the first time and discover there is no street lighting.

“Geez – you daren’t drive on these roads at night,” wails Jay. “You’re for sure going to end up dead in a ditch. It’s so damned dark here – like being in Hell. ”

© Susie Kelly 2009

Next week:  Woops!  Al fresco activities.

Driving up to Austin this weekend made me think of the days when I had to take a bus.  I don’t know how many of you have had to take the Greyhound from Houston anywhere, but it’s quite an experience.  Since Nicole is in Austin and all last year I didn’t have a car, the Greyhound became my go-to mode of long distance transportation.  It was relatively cheap (gas was expensive then, so it almost balanced out), a comfortable ride, and I could just sleep and listen to my iPod for the 4 hour trip.  Naturally, this all came at a price.

If you haven’t been to the downtown Greyhound station, you’re going to have difficulty imagining what I’m about to describe.  The building itself is a dreary grey box that someone thought to splash with the occasional line of blue in an epically failed attempt to make it look more enticing to non-drug dealers.  There’s an assorted collection of vagabonds and thugs outside that will holler at anything that weighs less than 200 pounds and has a vagina, and there’s always someone passed out on the small patch of grass outside for reasons beyond my understanding.

But here’s the thing: as motley as the crew of people outside the building always is, the assortment of people inside is what you could make a reality show out of.  If you just took a cross-section of everybody that shouldn’t be allowed to vote, the people riding on the bus with you out of Houston would be like the greatest hits of that collection.  A drug dealer once asked to use my cell phone, and then told me he could get me some “stuff” for cheap.  A kleptomaniac once tried to sneak on board my bus and then stole about 20 dollars worth of snacks from the rest stop we visited.  A sketchy Black guy walked with me outside the station, told me about the establishment of communism in China, and then bet me five dollars he could beat me in a game of chess.  And my favorite, a mentally retarded middle-aged man who just got out of the hospital used up all my minutes on my Sprint plan because I was too scared to ask for the phone back.

I bet you think the retarded guy on my cell phone thing is funny, but you should’ve been there.  This dude was covered with white overgrown hair, had fingernails that were literally about an inch long, and was lugging around big grocery bags full of cereal. Plus, he had a hospital tag around his wrist. With my shitty luck, he got in line behind me to get on the Austin bus and then asked to use my phone.  I had prepared for this scenario ever since I saw him wandering over, and was all ready with a lie about how I didn’t have a phone, but then he looked at me and I saw his crazy eyes. No joke, I could tell just from his eyes that this fucker was loco and if I didn’t give him my phone, there was a chance that he was going to sodomize me with a cactus and murder me once we got off the bus in Austin.  Yes, I got all of that from a look.

Now, if you’re telling me you would’ve denied this dude, you’re more full of shit than a goose with a butt plug. I mean, COME ON, an overgrown crazy man just released from what was probably a psychiatric ward with claws for nails and fiery pits where his eyes should have been dragging around what looked like the entire cereal isle at HEB is enough to intimidate anybody.  Anyway, I gave the dude my phone, and he started dialing with his claw fingers, and against my will, I was drawn into his conversation.

I would love to give you a transcript of what he said, but it was too long and too fucking crazy.  Instead, I’ll give you bullet points of what I gleaned.  No lie:

He was mugged and beaten by two guys who apparently stole his food stamps, though I didn’t think they could be stolen.

He ended up in the hospital after some dude found him in the street.

He was calling the woman (I think) who lived near Austin to try and get a place to stay.

The woman didn’t seem to know him.

He really needs a place to stay because he wants to get out of Houston because apparently a bank lent him money for his hospital bills but he thinks if he gets out of the city he won’t have to pay them back.

In an attempt to convince the woman that he should visit her, he says he brought food for “the kids.”  I realize he’s talking about his cereal.

It’s been over 20 minutes since he started talking, and I’ve tried unsuccessfully a few times to get my phone back.  I’ve been speaking clearly and to his face, but he either is ignoring me or (more likely) he can’t physically focus on two things at once and so chooses to continue with the phone call.  Short of wrestling the phone away from this guy (something I was hesitant to do in case the crazies was actually contagious), there is nothing I can do but listen to him use up the last of our family plan’s 700 anytime minutes.

To make a long story short, we got on the bus and I got my phone back.  I start feeling bad for the guy, and as if the dude can sense my pity, he asks for my phone again when we get to La Grange, a rest-stop halfway to Austin.  He proceeds to dial a number printed on a newspaper he bought at the gas station and tries to convince the person on the other line that they should let him stay with them.  I realize the number he dialed was a pizzeria advertising in the paper.  At this point, I know it’s about a 50/50 chance he’s about to ask to stay with me.  Eventually, though, we parted ways and I never found out if he had a place or stay or what the cereal was for.  An epic fail on all accounts.

Anyway, that’s just one story to demonstrate the oddity of the Houston Greyhound.  I pretty much know anytime I go there, I’m going to get off the bus with a story to tell.  I don’t understand why they all congregate at the Grey Hound station, as if reasonable fares and service to over 200 cities nationwide is some sort of mating call to the oddest characters in Houston.  What this means for me, though, is that I am never bored at these stations, if only because I’m constantly making sure I’m not being robbed or coerced into letting some 40-year old crazy dude stay with Nicole and me.

-Bo