Guilty

Another example of a dog who needs shaming

Blah, Blah, Blah ... I'm so hot ... It's always about Vito and that fur coat.

Bon Voyage!

Nick holds Vito safely in his arms

Nick is flying into NYC in a couple of hours. Before him are a week of interviews taking place in the very best city on the Earth. He's preparing for his future.
He's a young man full of life.

Ten years ago, a handful of madmen -- their names are immaterial, I barely remember them anyway-- rammed planes into buildings and stole the futures of more than 3,000 innocent souls.

Godspeed, my boy, to you and your fellow passengers aboard Flight 2248 headed to LaGuardia.

Everyone on that airplane, every one in that city, is our future.
No madmen today taking that away.

Playoff Nameoff

Pavel Datsyuk

“He was with the Interior Ministry. Guy's like a Russian green beret. He cannot come back and tell this story. You understand?”

- Tony Soprano, “Pine Barrens”

It seems Vito has skated onto the Pavel Datsyuk Zamboniwagon.

I am the first to admit that the Detroit Red Wings Russian superstar has been slicker and more slippery than the ice he skates on.

But Vito is rubbing in the fact that he and Pavel originally hail from the same part of the world, and the rest of us in the Pedersen household don’t.

He is turning against Sicily and embracing the “Siberian” part of his huskiness, demanding that we change his name during the NHL playoffs. Vito wants to go with something more “Russian.”

I’ve had three teenagers. When they get an idea in their heads, you are better off letting them go with it, then its success or failure rests solely on them. It also helps, if the idea is relatively benign, to try and be supportive.

So I suggested a few names, those with Russian roots, that we actually called some of our former pets.

“What about Misha?” I asked, remembering the dog with the big brown eyes.

Vito jabbed his paw into his mouth like he was going to throw up.

“How about Sergei, as in Sergei Federov?" I asked. "He was a great Red Wing, like Datsyuk.”

He blinked a couple of times, which I interpreted as we were getting close, but not quite there.

“Let me think,” I said. “There was once this great Red Wings Defenseman named Vladimir Konstantinov. He was strong and powerful. And since Vito and Vladdy both start with the same letter, we won’t even have to change your monogramed towels.”

Vito barked loud and proud.

“That was easy,” I said. “Let’s toast your new playoff name.”

I grabbed a couple of glasses and poured us some orange juice.

"To Vladdy," I said, hoisting my glass, but Vito's remained untouched.

“What’s wrong now?" I asked.

With his nose, he pointed to a bottle of Smirnoff.

Nostrovia.

Vladimir Konstantinov

Hoops

Vito picks the Huskies. Go figure.

Do you believe in miracles?

I wish St. Patrick could come back to Earth for one day. Surely we'd find him in Japan, leading his flock away from radiation, into a field of soft shamrocks.

Vito Gras!

Vito went a little nutty and spilled a glass of wine on himself during his annual Mardi Gras party (for the second year in a row,  he was his only guest).  We called for an intervention.  He promised to lay off the parties and stick to water.
Photo by Brian Pedersen.

Epic

Vito waits sadly

"I am on a drug. It's called Charlie Sheen. It's not available. If you try it once, you will die. Your face will melt off and your children will weep over your exploded body."

- Charlie Sheen

Here’s what my day is like: revise my novel, feed myself, revise my novel, relieve myself, revise my novel, feed my family, revise my novel, go to sleep.

There’s no energy left for Vito, or the two porn gods who live with my family.

Vito looks at me pleadingly (The brown eyes pleads. I never know what’s going on with that half colorless one). He is beginning to remind me of that thin, sad dog in the commercial for the antidepressant Abilify, waiting by the door for his owner to finally take him on a walk.

But I am not allowing myself go anywhere until I’m done revising my novel. I’ve chained myself to my dictionary and thesaurus, a prisoner of grammar.

Revising a novel is nothing like actually creating one

             The act of inventing a book is like a narcotic. When the words pour forth onto the paper, I’m a bitchin’ rock star. Tiger blood courses through my veins!  After 1,000 words each day, I’m done. Vito and I slap on our alien brains and we become a pair of high priest assassin warlocks to be reckoned with.

For me, revising a novel is the opposite of writing it. It’s like Charlie Sheen without the “Adonis DNA.” Studying every tense and analyzing every analogy is all work. I barely have the energy left to help Vito brush his teeth, and this is not okay with him.

When I told him that I’m doing this for us, so that we’d be winners, he opened his mouth and burped, “D-u-u-uh.” When I asked him if he thought I should spell “d-u-u-uh” with two “u’s” or three, he got mad. He grabbed my Chicago Manual of Style and buried it somewhere. I still haven’t found it.

He is showing signs of depression from my neglect. If I don’t snap this novel into shape soon Vito is going to need a prescription for Abilify.

 Or maybe a transfusion of gnarly tiger blood.

That would be epic, man.