King County Sheriff's Office Investigating Farm Sex

And people say Seattle's not funky enough. This is pure funk.

Second paragraph, where the guy suffered injuries from anal sex with a horse (and died)...we're going to guess the guy's not a top... (click headline for link)

The Tip

So Red and I are doing the morning Big Walk. We pass off the concrete to the great grassy area near the overlook, Seattle still casting a morning shadow over Elliott Bay.

There, 50 yards ahead, is a woman in the parking area. She's arrived in a new Solara. She's parked right next to a garbage can.

As Red prowls through the dewy bushes, the lady gets out of the Solara and takes a Hefty bag out of the trunk of her car. She hauls it over to the can. She pushes the top off the bin - they're big things, crow proof - and it clatters on the ground. She puts her big bag in, then goes back to her car.

Too much garbage this week?
Bag o fish guts?
All the old pics of her family?
Parts of her husband?

She roots around her car and gets little bits of crap we all have. Receipts, coke cans, the Seattle Weekly personals. She gets out and throws it into the bin. Then she gets back in her car without attempting to put the top back on the bin.

I approach and she slams her car door. I pick up the lid and put it back on the container, bending over in front of her passenger window to do so ... and she guns it to the exit of the park.

What's in the bag?
What's in the bag?
Don't look.
What's in the bag?

I just found a slide projector in the free section on craigslist.org. One of those things, "I have an old skool slide projector that doesn't work but prolly just needs a new plug or whatever..." It was just around the corner from my home, so I went and got it. It just needed a little fix.

When I turned it on the automatic ejector went *click* and this slide popped out. And I was in the moment.

Who are you cute people?
Are you still alive?
Did cigars give you anything worse than bad breath?
Were you proud of your children?
White shoes and a lime dress - why?
And what is the naughtiest thing you ever did with that Polaroid camera, sir?
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There was a weber charcoal grill that came with my house. And this handy instruction book. It caused delight and wonder for me.

For a while I thought that was a mound of potatoes at the top. Why potatoes on a BBQ manual? Then I realized it was briquettes. But the real puzzle: to whom is the guy on the left related? The President of Weber? The VP of Marketing? The photographer? Because no one in their right mind would say, "I've got the perfect guy for the cover of our food related product...let's use Uncle comb-over!"
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Nematodus Maximus. I was just doing a little soil-turning and I found this ridiculously large worm. As shown: eight inches. As thick as my pinky. Once he/she warmed up he/she grew suddenly to twice that length. I may have bad dreams about this thing. Now happily aerating the roots of my basil in loamy darkness.
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My name is not Red.

‘Red’ is a sound they make that makes me feel good. It conjurs treats. Of being let up on the bed. It takes me back to puppy-hood, their faces looming huge against my snout, making me cross my eyes to see them as they breath their essence on me, rubbing my belly, making me feel cute and loved and smart. Not just accepted, but instrinsic.

But Red is not my name.

My name is un-utterable. It is a compound of smells and actions, a complex relationship of all that comes from me. And it cannot be said by anyone. It can only be expressed by me.

Other dogs know my name – and better yet, they know when I have been there before them. My name goes slightly ahead of me, and stays long after. No dog gets in that truck without knowing whose truck it is. Mine. They know it is mine.

Smell me, know my name.
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