Y'know, you bastards have made those dogs (the living ones and the ceramic versions) speak to me as though I'm David Berkowitz, and my molding, forgotten South has become the Queens. Fact is, I think I'll call my best friend back in the high school days, Rocco Francia, and run the dogs past him for a look-see. Rock was burnt alive in a Formula One racing misfortune; he was pit crew. Burnt to a crisp and still lives. Owns very expensive English bulldogs, owns a very successful lawn-care/landscaping business in Colorado Springs. Burrrrnnnt to a crisp yet lived. He looks pretty ghoulish, married an absolute calendar babe. Procreated with her.

Life is strange.

During our wonderful adventure in Viet Nam, Rocco gat a Conscientious Objector status (him, a right brutish Sicilian immigrant's son) whereas I (the faithful Quaker) was denied the CO out. David Rocco Francia was sent to do alternative service at Koionia Farm in Americus, GA -- a Christian service commune founded by my uncle, Clarence Jordan, in 1949. I refused to serve, and some hard times followed.

David (no one left alive except his mother and I call him David) learned farming mighty well at Koionia, and he was already rather an activist. But he hires Mexicans to cut rich men's lawns.

Life is strange.

And prison sucks almost as much as war sucks.

Life is strange.

Maybe I'll figure your dogs out. Maybe I won't.

yrs,
the ever-dependable fool,
Guy Wms.

at least these dogs bring pleasant messages ;) sir jim is off to japan.

crazy out here, totally unexpected, thanks as always Guy Neal for the comments. Happy New Year. Internet access has been few and far between in my wife's home town.