Tag Archives: Buddy

buddy dog adviseLife is funny, ya know. I mean, I’m just a dog, right? And I’m expected to give some kind of advice, some kind of commentary every time Amy or Charlie have trouble in the land of love. I’m just a dog, I tell them. But they don’t seem to care. They continue with the rant, and each of them have a rant so important that I can’t nap, I can’t look for cats, mice, or even eat without them following me all over the house. Is this normal? I mean, wasn’t I supposed to be for cuddling, holding so close to add warmth? Were they not supposed to tell me how cute I was every time they saw me? I don’t get that anymore. I think they are going through a scratch patch–in our terms, a relationship problem. But that is how we work. Brozios and bruzias, all the same: they need to see each other as bounce boards, something they can reach out for when they have trouble. They can also be there for one another when times are good.

Now these scratch patches are frequently occur when their is a new fence to jump. Sometimes it takes four of five missed jumps to go over that fence; the other three or four jumps are only smashed faces against the fence. But, that’s how we learn, right? Failure on our way to success–that’s what I’m talking about. In a relationship, I tried to tell them, there will always be problems: who gets the pillow tonight? Who get the last treat? Who decided how long the nap will be? These are all questions we all ask.


Little Richie


Little Richie walks into the living room, smelling the air floating along the lower end of the furniture, looking for Buddy at the other. He spots Buddy and runs as gracefully as possible toward the green sofa, the same green sofa most visitors relax upon. Richie falls forward, sliding just enough for the friction his chin is feeling to get warm. He turns his head to signal to Buddy that he’s alright. Youth.

“Well, Buddy, I just don’t know? You ask me if I love her, and I say Yes, definitely. She should know that. I take her things on her birthday, don’t I? I never forget that day.  Got it written in a book so I don’t forget.”

Buddy walks over to take a sip of cool water before returning to his spot on the couch. He has a little trouble adjusting and making himself comfortable. “I mean it takes more than that, Richie. It’s not about what you think she wants, as I have said many, many times, it’s what she wants to begin with. Ya see? If you don’t take the time to see what she wants, then you are not listening but making decisions based on what you want. That’s true consideration, my friend. It’s really not that complicated, Richie. So when did the clouds arrive in town?”


“When did the trouble begin, Rich?”

“Oh, the other night, we were discussing what we each expected out of this relationship.”

“NO! That’s the worst kinda of conversation to have, Richie. It  becomes a list of things that you are responsible for; now these things have to be done, and done really well. You put yourself in a corner with not way out. Oh, no! Did she have a list of things that she expected from you? Did she read them aloud? Did she nod her head to you after reading each one? At the end, did she smile and say ‘your turn?’  And, let me guess, you didn’t know what to say, right? You were so confused that you forgot where you were; you forgot your name; you forgot what her name was; you forgot where you left your keys, right? And, you forgot you were a brozio, right?  And do you want to know why? Because you’re not a Bro no mo! When you lose your voice, you lose your cojones!”

“Uh…right. How did you know, Bud? Were you there? I didn’t see you? ”

“At your  place, no. But, I’ve been there–the situation.”

“So, what do I do, Bud, I’m so confused?”

“Let me think.” After a few minutes…”Okay, here’s what you do.”

…to be continued


She just hangs up.2



“Okay, Gary, I don’t know why Gwen feels the need to avoid conversation.  Let me give you an example derived from my personal experience.  When I was dating this bruzia down in the center of town, she did not like to talk face-to-face. So, I suggested she send me a card, hand-delivered.  I didn’t really care that it was hand-delivered or not–I just wanted her to work a little.  I guess you could say I was toying with her; having a little fun.  You can say I really didn’t see it as serious by then, or I would have sat down a for a pointed little meeting with her.  I did, at one point, try to get her to call me early for a wake up call so that I could quickly grab the phone and start a conversation.  She allowed the phone to ring until I picked it up, then she hung up–blipped out.  We eventually started seeing each other less and less. I just couldn’t communicate with her; she obviously did not want to talk to me.  That’s all I have left of the memories of Tracy.”

“So it sounds like you’re saying that I really have no chance of getting this girl to communicated with me?”

“No. What I’m saying is that she may have commubia: it’s just that phobia of talking with someone face-to-face. Ever meet someone who cannot seem to look at you straight in the eyes? Well, that’s a form of commubia. A full-blown case would be when that same person can only talk to you through text message, through a door, loudly through a wall, from behind a counter, or some other sort of veil. Though you get irritated, understand that she may have a serious condition–it’s hard to say what it is. And, as I said, there are clinics and support groups for that sort of thing.”

“What should I do?”

“If you truly want this to work, and enjoy being with her, talk to her about it, and be patient. Everyone’s got something.”

“Wow! I never knew.”

“Or, consider that she may not really want to talk to you.”


“Just saying…”

She just hangs up


Buddy and Gary sit, quietly sipping on some new exotic coffee drink recommended to them by the barista, a young twenty-something, who goes by the name Four, as in the number.
Gary scratches his hind leg with his left paw, rapidly. Buddy watches him with a slight glance of the eyes.

“So right in the middle of the brief conversation, everything goes silent. ‘Hello. Hello,’ I say. Then, Buddy, I receive a text message from Gwen. Sometimes, it’s four or five texts in a row–140 characters, you know. It usually starts with an apology for not talking on the phone. She says it’s the cell phone, cancer thing. But she’s stopped using that one. Then she will send a picture of herself eating something like dessert, in a strange standing pose. Does this seem odd to you? I mean, face to face would be great, but I would even settle for a few minutes talking on the phone; two cans with string; anything. I really don’t think it’s so much to ask.”

“Nah, not too much. Maybe she has commubia.”

“Is that when a person can only communicate with a cell phone or pictures, but is fear-struck when real, face to face verbal communication takes place?”

“Yes it is, Gary; and, most of the communication is done by texting on the phone, not by talking on the phone. I’ve read that many have developed severe cases of commubia and, as of yet, they have found no simple remedy other than complete separation from the communication device. They even hold weekend clinics which set out to cure this modern, social malady. Success varies, depending on the individual, experts say. Is she young and restless? Is she one of the bruzias who spends constant hours on her device texting? Okay, Gary, does she have ADD?”

“Does she have ADD? Yes, but she has the other ADD. You know, it’s the close cousin to not being able to focus and concentrate. She has ADD+, where she doesn’t receive enough attention. Now that’s true Attention Deficit Disorder. But that doesn’t explain her inability to hold a conversation other than in text messages.

“If we only had a way to communicate with others without texting or speaking to them face to face, Buddy, that would be amazing!”

“We do, it’s called writing letters; and we gave that up decades ago, along with lobotomies, Corvairs, and panel wagons. Okay, let me explain something to you.”

to be continued…

My Hex…

hound close upBuddy and Jill sit in front of the bookshelf, adjacent to the south corner window of the living room. Jill is explaining the difficulty of ending a relationship, her relationship with Jack.
“Buddy, what is the term for the transitional state between together and apart? Married and divorced? A couple and not? How do I refer to him? How does he refer to me? Soon-to-be seems so long, and such a painfully worn out term. Is “ex” too early, and is it describing it clearly?”

“No, that’s a term used once that transition state has passed. It’s the period between; it’s that emotional state between the fights and the acceptance that it’s over. It’s that Hex place; it’s that Hex period. She is not your girlfriend; she is your Hex girlfriend. He is not your boyfriend, he is your Hex boyfriend. She is not your wife, she is your Hex wife…and so on. It’s that period of time during the confusion of it all; the period before the clear end.”

“But what does that mean, Buddy?”

“Well, it means a lot of things for each of us. It means you no longer have to laugh at his jokes. You know, when he says the same old joke, over and over, thinking he’s just about the funniest man alive. In front of friends, you feel obligated to laugh and save him, especially when it’s really not that humorous. And you continue to laugh about you know not what anymore. You’ve heard the same joke so many times that you’ve forgotten what makes it funny. In fact, you’ve heard it so many times that you’ve now begun to tell the same joke. Pitiful! Well, you no longer have to do this joke parroting or the obligatory laughing session which follows. For men, it finally means being honest. Maybe he really doesn’t love that old, blue dress that makes her look twenty pounds heavier. It’s just not that attractive! Now, she might consider donating the dress to someone less fortunate, which may become something really unfortunate for someone else. If he is tired of this old, blue dress, then I’m sure everyone at the parties, weddings, and holiday get-togethers are just as tired. They are probably nauseous, but fight to be kind. It’s also about not having to constantly tell her that she looks so, so young, especially when she tries wearing those jeans all the twenty-somethings are wearing. It means he no longer has to treat her best friend as though she were his best friend. It means he no longer has to refer to his sister-in-law who dresses in 80’s wear as unique and individually stated. You no longer have to pretend to love the five-dollar Starbucks gift card his aunt Louise gifts you for Christmas, forgetting that she gives you the same thing every year. He no longer has to tell her that her younger sister looks much older and far less attractive than she is, even when it’s a blatant lie. Because she knows, as well as her Hex husband, that her younger sister is smoking hot. It means you no longer have to gasp and awe at the things he says, as though every word was the most interesting word ever spoken; as though every conversation should be documented and placed in a time capsule for future generations to ponder upon. Wow! This alone should make life so pleasant, even during the demise of the relationship. I know it was for me, and I know it will be for you.

The Hex state is perhaps the best state before all endings. It prepares you for upcoming change. Think of it as spring training before the new season. Think of it as an early release program, a program that prepares you for the next stages of an eventful life. Many are often lost in this acute state, since it’s new and different for each of us and is usually over quickly. I think it’s the perfect stage: you’re not in, in all the turmoil, and you are not quite out yet. Remember, consider it a priceless gift once the decision has been made to end all things. The Hex state is short-term schooling for the soon-to-be-lost. Approach it well, and you’ll be just fine.”

         “Couldn’t we just call it the I should have never state?”


She’s Got This Killer Look 2.0


mutt“Okay, I’ll give  you the straight: They do, and they have many, many more looks, my friend.   They have the looks that command you to take out the garbage, stop talking,  quit being so loud, and what you just said was plain stupid–and much, much more.  There is a catalogue of looks, you know; I have a copy. The most common look is a furrowed brow with a slight head tilt to the left, half-squinted eyes pointing in the same direction. That’s the look given to most men. It’s really a harmless look in terms of the Look Hierarchy. This one probably ranks at about a 1.5 on a 10 point scale.”

“Are you kidding me? Why do those looks ranks so low? I mean, they seem pretty powerful to me, Bud.”

“Well, it depends on the offense. Take me, for example. I once dated a woman who saw me looking at another woman, a bruzia; she gave me the most contemptuous look I have ever experienced.  I wasn’t even looking at the other woman as attractive, but as someone I thought I knew from sometime in the past. Now her look at me was different: the head was straight; opened eyes the size of small melons, piercing directly into mine; teeth clinched; jaw muscles flexing with every breath she took; nostrils flaring open large enough for flies to make emergency landings if needed. I could have sworn I saw two small horns raising from under the skin on her sun-baked forehead. She always denied that one, though.”

“So what happened?”

“I don’t remember; I passed out in the restaurant: fell out of my chair, tripped a waiter who spilled four dishes on me and people at the next table, I was told. The next thing I knew, I was in the emergency room, hooked up to a heart monitor. When the doctor finally spoke to me, he said ‘looking at another woman, huh? Then you passed out. Then they rushed you in to see a doctor in the emergency wing.  I see this all the time. It’s that look!  And I’ve seen them all.’

So, when I got out, I spoke to Charlie, who indicated to me that a woman’s gazing looks are many, and vary by degree. Each one of them hold some power and the potential for immediate destruction to the recipient of said look. He has had many friends lose it all over that look. He once had a friend who drove his car into oncoming traffic.  His friend tried feverishly but failed to escape the gaze; and he got the look by simply asking the wrong question. Each woman decides, for herself, which look she will give, based on the offense.

But, Wilard, it all begins in childhood for a woman, a bruzia. Charlie says that women attend special gazing conventions.  These camps, or killer’s look conventions, are dedicated to manipulating look training.  They go through months of rigorous training as very young children. Then, when they are done, and it becomes intuitive, almost second nature, they are released to the world.  By the time they are three, these skills are codified in their personalities, Charlie says. All women, at some point, realize they have it, but never speak about it to one another.  It’s another example of that unspoken, feminine code.

The downside to all of this is when a woman, a bruzia, recognizes this powerful trait and becomes overly aggressive with it, that killer’s look. It’s like a power hungry executive needing to wield her power. It can get out of control. A loose canon, out of control! I’ve also lost a few friends to oncoming traffic, deliriously running onto car-filled streets, looking to escape this gaze.  It’s that gaze that drives many men to suicide.  When I asked about the friends I’ve lost to traffic, they say an accident, but I know better. The only advice I can give you is to be aware, and be very, very careful.


yellow.labIt’s Monday. The sun is out, casting broad light over the building tops, trying to decide where to place its warmth first this morning. It’s past the middle of July, moisture in the air is beginning again, and Buddy is patiently awaiting his guest, Benjamin. He really likes Benjamin, although Beni, as he calls him, can be a little eager in many ways. He always has something to say and something ask, as most young dogs do.

Buddy continues to watch movement in the house, while he listens to the noises streaming into the apartment through the open glass door facing the façades of other buildings. “Be good, Bud,” Amy shouts, as she leaves for the day. Buddy lays his head down on the hardwood floor, looking in the direction of Charlie’s office. The doorbell rings. “Maybe it’s Beni,” the curious look on Buddy’s face suggests.

to be continued…