Bark.

I am not the biggest fan of spring. Mostly it's the allergies, but I'm more of a fall person. Regardless, I love them both more than summer and winter because I can open the windows and get fresh breezes and listen to the birds chirping and whatnot. But not here. Not in this house. This house is not the house for open windows which is ironic considering there are dozens of them. This house is for earmuffs and loud TV volumes and foamy ear plugs because of what little darlings? DOGS!

Now I love dogs, probably more than most, but seriously, this neighborhood's dogs are either all retarded, just like to hear themselves talk, or weren't very well trained in their early days. Regardless of the reason, the basset hound next door never SHUTS UP! She barks and barks and barks and barks and barks until she whips herself into a froth and starts howling like something's seriously wrong when in reality it's the mailman or the garbage truck or, my personal favorite, and hers apparently, ABSOLUTELY NOTHING! Basset hounds are stupid dogs, by the way. Nothing that can't jump up on things should be kept around. I'm amazed these sorry excuses for canines weren't weeded out by natural selection long ago.

The dread creature was just waxing rhapsodic on something only she could see for the last six minutes. Yes. Six minutes. I timed it because after nearly a year here, it still amazes me that something that can barely waddle onto the patio from the grass (and they're on the same level) can have enough energy to bark her fool head off at oxygen or passing satellites or gnats. Whatever the hell it is, I sure as hell can't see it.

And that's not all. When she really gets going, it spreads to all the other fool creatures in a 12 mile radius. Then Benny and Sam and the black-and-white-dog-that-gets-loose-and-lays-in-the-middle-of-the-street and the two behind us and that other one I can never see only hear all get in on it and the evening's cacophony begins anew as they attempt to outdo each other. Again, this is coming from someone who loves dogs. A lot.

See, the problem isn't the barking. I'm cool with that. It happens. It can be funny at times and helpful at others. It's the barking at 10pm or 11pm or 12am or 1am or beyond that really gets to me and that's not their fault. It's their parents' fault. And really, it's the people I'm mad at, but obviously, I can't bring it up to them because I don't know sign language and they're clearly deaf if they can let a dog bark incessantly for SIX minutes without SAYING A FREAKING WORD!

So, to all the neighborhood dogs I say, "The mailman comes by every day, the garbage truck comes by three times a week, the sun goes down and you go to sleep. These are not surprises so learn to adjust your internal clock accordingly." And to the parents I say:

Star Jones is Nicole Richie

I swear one is just the darker, plumper version of the other. Perhaps, Richie lives inside of Jones and only comes out for certain public events, y'know, like the Oscars.

National Poetry Month - Elizabeth Skurnick

Oh! Oh, this reminds me of my old, free-wheelin' days of my early 20's. Well, most of it does. I'm not tellin' which part doesn't 'cuz this is a family blog. But, regardless, this Lizzie Skurnick is an unabashed genius and kicks off OAA's NatPoMo quite nicely. In fact, that's how your Old Aunt Amy got her start - writing pithy emails containing poetry called "Old Aunt Amy's Poetry Corner". I'm sure a couple of the 6 readers remember those glory days. Well, now they're back for the month of April (which is National Poetry Month, dontcha know)! So, enjoy the works of Elizabeth here or read it where I found it.

"Ballad Of The Love-Scorned Anywoman"

Would it trouble you, at my behest,
to put a stuttering heart to rest?

This trouble's neither great nor tall?
So look at me, at least, or call.

My number's listed in the book, and
much is said with scattered look,

or not. Not operating, then
fling out that stevedore, and pen

a captive letter, deeply felt, as
lush and fired as African veldt.

God's love, we never had a fight!
We Walked in Beauty like the Night!

or somesuch. As you used to say??
perhaps that was another day.

Perhaps you listed me along
with All Else In My Life That's Wrong:

the idling sound that's not quite sound, the
ruined roast, the basset hound

you wanted but never seemed to get. And
you had studied to be a vet!

Perhaps I'm left in flounced heap
with all else limitless and cheap. Or

backyard flung to sootwashed bin,
with other snot-strung cherubim.

But I digress, and I'm forlorn.
My hands are weeping, chewed-off, torn.

I'd send them to The One I Love,
If Hallmark made a helpful glove.

My needs are drippy, short and clear:
could you last lilt out, "My Dear?"

Can't do? Be kind, if we're to be free?
I sucked your dick; be nice to me.

Thoughts On A Sunny Day

The Saddam trial should replace C-SPAN. C-SPAN is only exciting at times, the Saddam trial is always good for a laugh. I'm concocting a madcap theme song for the whole thing, but I can't think of anything that rhymes with "daughter of a whore".