Remembering Roxie

Should auld acquaintance be forgot? Heck, no!

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As a New Year dawns, the nation mourns the passing of the embodied inspiration for America's favorite dog blog devoted to politics, pop culture, and basketball. 2009, the year of celebrities dying quicker than you could say "Michael Jackson" (!?!?), ends with one more megastar biting the dust!

Tributes pour in from fellow bloggers devastated by Roxie's death but inspired by her example. See what Historiann and Kate have to say!

Facebook nearly collapses beneath the weight of the encomiums to the most famous wire-haired fox terrier since Asta. She was "noble," declared one pal, even "magical." She was "mischievous," recalled another who knew Roxie as a leaping, barking, high-speed maniac known for eating socks and tearing the shirts of poor grad students. Also on Facebook, a caretaker from Roxie's last months reveals the only known video of Roxie, which depicts her drinking water in the submarine/snorkel style of her final days.

Here, alas, is the final, poignant photograph taken of the embodied Roxie, on the last night of her earthly life:

(Photo Credit: Geoffrey [enhanced by Moose using Camera Bag], 12/29/09)

And below, for the benefit of new readers and fans who never knew Roxie in real life, is a reprint of a post we ran back in February when the universe of Facebook was consumed with the "25 Random Things About Me" meme. The list recounts many of the stories the moms have been telling over the course of the past few days, as they celebrate a long, joyous life and try to adjust to being without an animal companion for the first time in their nearly 26 years together. How are they coping? Goose is sleeping a lot, Moose hardly at all. They are talking about getting some new fish for the pond in the ridiculously large back yard. They are as grateful as it is possible to be for the love and kindness of friends near and far, which is the best cure for heartache on dog's earth. Thank you, everybody, and happy new year.

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Randomly Roxie
(Originally published February 6, 2009)


Not that anyone tagged me or anything, but I figure if both NYT and Wa Po have pieces on some cultural phenomenon on the same day, then in effect we’ve all been tagged and I should probably get in on the action. Both of the moms devoted significant chunks of last weekend to composing their lists of “25 Random Things About Me,” the meme that has been spreading like a virus through Facebook (who knew randomness could take so much time?). They then spent what was left of the weekend reading and commenting on other people’s lists to see if theirs were as clever and creative and charming and poignant as everybody else’s was. A week later, the nation’s papers of record weigh in to help us figure out if we are a nation of narcissists or a nation of strangers desperate for any way to connect with others – as long as we don’t actually have to, you know, interact with them. Third possibility: We are a nation of fiddlers frantically stroking our violins while the global economy goes up in flames all around us and our charming young president tries to figure out how to play hardball. Fourth possibility: People are stressed and looking for ways to laugh and decompress. If you don’t like the lists, then for dog’s sake don’t click on them.

We digress. Go read Krugman if you feel a need to get your knickers in a wad over the economy. We’re here to bare our souls, to share all that you’ve longed to know about us – and then some. Here, as randomly as my control freak of a German typist would allow me to make it, is my list of 25 Random Things About Me. Drum roll, please? Thank you!

1. I was born on Andrews Air Force Base, which is why I’ve always felt a cozy sense of familiarity with the military helicopters that regularly fly over our house. The moms were born in hospitals, which perhaps explains why they are less fond of helicopters and make frequent jokes about hand-held rocket launchers when there’s a chopper in the neighborhood.

2. In keeping with a tradition in Goose’s family of naming dogs after dead relatives, I was named after Moose’s maternal grandmother, Roxie Irene Brown.

3. My birth parents, a handsome pair of AKC-registered WFTs named Samantha and Gilligan, were named after protagonists of 60s sitcoms that the moms both watched and loved in their separate childhoods in Texas and Indiana.

4. I spit up on Goose in the car when the moms were driving me to my new home with them. She snuggled me closer and said it smelled sweet. I had a hunch I had stumbled into a pretty good deal when I leapt into her arms as they came through the door that beautiful May afternoon in 1994.

5. I’ve explained this before, but newer readers may not know that Moose and Goose got their names as a tribute to their different styles as dog parents. “Moose” is short for Mussolini, and “Goose” is short for Mother Goose. Guess who’s the disciplinarian and who’s the one we call the Freedom Schooler?

6. To Moose’s shame and considerable chagrin, I was an obedience school dropout. I got into quite a showdown one night with Renée, the rather formidable black dyke who ran the class, when she was trying to teach me the “down” command. Needless to say, though I understood it immediately, I did not cotton to this particular command, so I tried to bite Renée to convey my displeasure. Renée got down on her knees, put her hand around my throat, looked me right in the eye and thundered, “Bite or breathe, Roxie!” We never went back, and to this day I have never gone into a down for anyone, anywhere. I will, however, sit for treats and come, if it’s convenient.

7. Because it often wasn’t convenient for me to come when called, the moms would try to lure me inside by offering me favorite foods. Many an evening, they would find themselves on the deck singing out into the darkness, “Roxie, do you want some couscous?” or, “Roxie, do you want some cake?” depending on what was the most effective treat at the time. One of the most embarrassing moments of Moose’s life was when a neighbor asked her at a party, “Why are you always yelling ‘couscous’ into the back yard?”

8. My first dog pal was a German Short-Haired Pointer named Jazz, who made me think I was a very big dog indeed. I have never been given any reason to believe this is not the case.

9. The only thing I ever met that intimidated me was the Atlantic Ocean. When the moms took me for a walk on an ocean beach, I looked up at them as if to say, “Do not under any circumstances let me off my leash! What the heck is that?”

10. Of course, the moms would never have let me off my leash. When I was a speedy young cuss, though, I made a couple of great escapes out our front door. One time, Moose chased me barefooted through a neighbor’s back yard in the middle of a barbecue. “Excuse me!” she shouted as she raced after me. “She went thataway,” the bemused neighbor said.

11. Rather than chasing me, Goose would sit on a curb and pretend to cry when I got away. “Oh, boohoo-hoo, Roxie, please come back!” It actually worked, once, but then I figured out the trick and went on about my adventure. The best way to capture me was to get close to me in the car and say, in an exceptionally cheerful voice, “Roxie, you wanna go for a ride?” That’s an offer I never could refuse. My Aunt Margie caught me that way once when she joined in a neighborhood SWAT team that had been put together to find me.

12. Just last week, to prove that I am still an adventurer and still capable of mischief, I walked out the front door when no one realized it was open and took myself down to Sligo Creek Parkway, close by the trail where the moms and I used to walk miles and miles together. Some very responsible neighbors saw me and were concerned because of my shaky gait. They called the number on my tag and a grateful Goose came and picked me up. Both moms were impressed with my stamina and my instinct to return to the scene of so many long happy walks. “I’m still the mayor of this trail,” I reminded them.

13. The regal profile photograph of me up at the top of the sidebar was taken on my very first boat ride. We were visiting the Carolina Moosians at their vacation home on Smith Mountain Lake. Moose took the picture and titled it, with a hat tip to the Boss, “Let the Wind Blow Back Your Ears.”

14. How weird are the moms? Part I: Moose has spent much of the week feeling that the 14th item on her list of “25 Random Things About Me” got her into some kind of karmic trouble. What was her 14th item?

My mother is a hypochondriac. My wholly rational reaction to this fact is that I don't believe in germs, allergies, flu shots, herbs, or doctors. If it can't be cured by Tums, Motrin, a stiff drink, or a long walk, I just don't want to mess with it.

And what has her week been like? She has had two doctor’s appointments, spent $300 on an anti-viral medication (because she refuses to pay for prescription drug coverage, convinced as she is that the pharmaceutical industry is more evil than the Taliban), and is spending Friday night in her red leather chair wondering what weird, unpleasant thing is going to happen next. She believes she tempted fate and that fate decided to kick her in the pants. (Don’t be alarmed, kids. You know Moose gets dramatic when she doesn’t feel well. She’s got chickenpox for grownups, which isn’t pretty but also isn’t fatal.)

15. How weird are the moms? Part II: Goose has spent much of the week trying to figure out just what to say or do for her grouchy, uncomfortable partner. “I wish I could fix it,” was met with a surly, “I’m sure you do.” “How ‘bout a drink?” “No, thanks. I’m watching my lips swell.” One minute Moose declares she is untouchable. The next Goose is summoned to the bathroom to put lotion on her back. It’s hard to be a ministering angel when the devil’s moved into the house.

16. One of my earliest fond memories is of running around our ridiculously large back yard while the moms were playing croquet with some friends. (This was their first season as homeowners. They were experimenting with different styles of suburban lesbianism.) I raced up and down the yard until I exhausted my tiny little self, at which point the croquet players started passing me from hand to hand so they could coo endearments into my ear. Someone started calling me “baby dog,” a term the moms still use when I do something exceptionally cute.

17. I have to confess that sometimes I have taken my job as security manager a little too seriously. On three occasions I have gotten into fights serious enough to draw blood while guarding my home territory. One of those fights was with my best dog pal, Chance, the high-strung but good-hearted border collie. We remain excellent friends to this day and blame our humans for the altercation.

18. My most selfless, heroic act ever was trying to save my trans-girl cat sister, Lily, who lapsed into a diabetic coma while the irresponsible humans were off at a concert. When they finally got home, I barked hysterically until they found Lily and then climbed up on the dining room table to watch over their efforts to resuscitate her. When she was better, I licked her face until it was clean of every trace of honey they had smeared on it. For the one and only time in her life, Lily reacted to my devoted attention with gratitude rather than feline contempt.

19. Like Goose, I have had two near-death experiences, one when I went into congestive heart failure not long after my mitral valve prolapse was diagnosed and the other when I had a vicious bout of pancreatitis in the summer of 2006. Moose set up my blog after the first incident and nearly shut it down after the second. Drama queen!

20. Humans will do amazing things for animals they love. When I went on a hunger strike after I started my heart meds, Goose cooked all my food for me – goulashes, meat loaves, grilled chicken. I lived like a queen! You all know about the liverwurst they use twice a day every day to get me to take my meds. Oh, they are clever, diabolical women.

21. I wander a lot these days inside the house. Sometimes I end up in corners and am not sure how I got there. Usually one of the moms comes along and turns me around. “Silly old girl,” she’ll say with a gentle rub behind an ear. Or at least I think that’s what she says. My old ears aren’t as sharp as they used to be.

22. A mystery: If humans are, for the most part, so kind to animals, why are they, too often, so unkind to one another and so terribly cruel to the planet that gives them life? I’ve spent many a long nap pondering this great conundrum and have never gotten anywhere near understanding it.

23. A dream: The three of us on the trail again, on a perfect afternoon in June, deciding to go all the way to Wayne and making up a song to sing on the long walk home.

24. If I could, I’d tag Chance and my pal Foxy, way out in the remote kingdom of Illinois, for this exercise. As it is, I’ll tag Historiann, because she hates Facebook, and my fellow WFT blogger, Buster. Keep it goin’, kids!

25. Here’s what Moose listed as the last of her “25 Things”:

Blogging will either be the ruin or the salvation of my academic career, but it gives me such profound creative, intellectual, and interpersonal pleasure that I honestly don't care where it leads. Note to students: Follow your bliss.

That sounds about right. Except for the blogging part. What the heck does Moose know about that? ;-)

Follow your bliss, beloveds. It’s the only thing that makes sense.

Stayin' Alive (Reprise)

Inspirational Geezer Edition

And the Indiana Jones Award for the Discovery of Hidden Treasures on the Interwebs goes to Dog-Eared Book, who sent in these gems in response to yesterday's meditation on the Bee Gees, the Buddha, and be-ing. I swear, sometimes I think DEB must be some kind of professionally trained researcher or something. With a charmingly quirky sense of what counts as culturally significant. Watch this now, or Dick Cheney will show up at your Fourth of July party to tell everyone that you are a really inept hostess and eating guacamole makes America less safe:



The punksters among you will also want to check out Young@Heart's creepy, crazy, wonderful rendition of the Ramones' "I Wanna Be Sedated." (Sorry to take you off-blog, but embedding on this one has been disabled. Follow that link, though. You won't regret it.)

Curious about who these singing, hoofing, aging children are? Young@Heart was established in 1982 at an elderly housing project in Northampton, MA. It is directed by Bob Cilman. The current group of performers ranges in age from 73 to 88. (Hey, maybe they need a canine mascot, who, at 105 in human years, would make them all spring chickens!) Full scoop on the group is here. And here's a trailer for the 2008 documentary, Young@Heart, directed by Stephen Walker.



Thanks for making our day, Dog-Eared Book. And thanks to all y'all for being, you know, the wind beneath our wings. Peace out.

Sweet Dreams

My Aunt Katie offered something in comments on a recent post this morning that was so intensely gratifying to my narcissism that I simply had to pull it up onto the main page, lest any of my more casual readers miss out on some rather extraordinary evidence of the deeply inspirational power of America’s favorite dog blog devoted to politics, pop culture, and basketball. (See this post for a previous example of my power to inspire flights of fancy and creativity among my legions of loyal fans, including my very youngest readers.) Here is what Katie, a brilliant feminist/queer theorist and recognized authority on, well, very nearly everything, had to say:

I had a dream last night, Roxie, and you, sort of, figured in it. After dreaming that I had changed the name of my course in the fall to Lesbian Communities, Queer Transdisciplinarities, and after falling asleep listening to a science fiction story in which a Martian was so absorbed in his artwork that he didn't notice he had died and continued to work on and on, straddling many worlds . . . .

Well, then I dreamed that your blog was crossing the transdisciplinary knowledge worlds and the worlds between us and the ancestors. Mark Twain was very eloquent on this subject and I suspect if you ask him it will turn out he deliberately infiltrated my dream world last night, too . . . .

So, Roxie, I think we should confer on you the order of crossing worlds, and that Mark Twain should do the honors at the awards ceremony. And that all of us should be grateful to have a fox terrier looking out for us and the ancestors, too.

Love, Katie (my Second Life cat Fenstalker says hi).

Katie also sent us an image she cooked up over in Second Life, where she has been spending a good bit of time recently, that looks cool and kinda feels like it goes along with the dream:


I have to admit that when the comment first popped up, I was a little confused. “Crossing transdiciplinary knowledge worlds,” I said to Moose. “That’s a good thing, right?”

“Oh, absolutely, Rox,” she assured me. “It’s what all the cool kids in the humanities are doing these days.”

“Ah, well then. And crossing the worlds between us and the ancestors?”

“Again, a very good thing. Katie’s dream recognizes our habit here in Roxie’s World of messing around with all kinds of boundaries in the interest of having fun, of making new senses of things, of seeing or creating connections between and among seemingly unrelated objects or ideas.”

“Really? We do all that?”

“Sure, we do, Rox! It’s your special talent! And Katie pays us the compliment of connecting the work and play we do around here with the fascinating scholarly work she is doing in what she calls the posthumanities.”

“Posthumanities – Is that about dogs?”

“In part,” Moose replied with a chuckle, “especially in the version pioneered by Katie’s great teacher, Donna Haraway. She is hugely into dogs.”

“But what about the Martian artist who was so absorbed in what he was doing that he didn’t realize he had died and just kept working? Does that mean love never dies?”

“Yes, Rox. That is exactly what that means,” Moose said, and then she turned aside and coughed a little.

“Moose?”

“Yes?” she said quietly.

“Do you ever dream of me?”

“Of course I do,” she said, with a brisk rub behind my ears, “and they are among the sweetest dreams I ever have, silly old girl.”

Watch the vid, kids. Let Roy Orbison sing you to sleep. And, as I’ve told you before, if you're not inspired to dream, you might as well be dead, so go ahead: Dream on me.

Aging Gracefully

Third Blogiversary Edition

Time for a little happy dance in your cubicles, kids. Today is the third anniversary of America's favorite dog blog devoted to politics, pop culture, and basketball! It's true! Can you believe we've been hanging out together for three whole years, sniffing out all the news that's fit to rant about, making up cool new words like "Terpalicious" and new phrases like "poop on toast?" We are so grateful to all of you for your wholly inexplicable devotion to us and what we do around here. As I say every year around this time,

Without you, I’m just an old dog with two crazy moms and a laptop. With you, I’ve got a whole world in my paws.

So thanks for coming by!

I'm not the only one with age on my mind today in Roxie's World. Moose received her invitation to join AARP in the mail yesterday, in anticipation of the monumental birthday that will be occurring in a little over two weeks. How is she feeling in anticipation of that event? Suffice it to say that she got a little verklempt yesterday reading Melissa McEwan's heartfelt tribute to The Golden Girls, but she couldn't figure out whether the emotion arose from a sense of identification with the author or the object of that tribute. Moose has long been a fan of Dorothy and the gang, seeing them as rare and marvelous pop cultural examples of (white, heterosexual, middle-class) women aging gracefully and feistily, but something in the quality of her admiration shifts as she realizes that Dorothy now feels less like a mother figure and more like a friend she might meet for lunch. "How're you doing?" Moose might say to Dorothy over a glass of wine. "How's the knee?" "Oh, fine," Dorothy would gamely reply. "How're the night sweats?" "Ah, don't ask. Just keep the cool drinks coming!"

Looking for a rowdier vision of aging, one that includes unapologetic golden girl-on-golden girl sexual action? Then get yourself over to The New Yorker (you'll need a subscription or access through your university library) and read every riveting word of Ariel Levy's "Lesbian Nation" (from the March 2 issue), which checks in with members of the "Van Dykes," a group of lesbian separatists from the 1970s whom Levy describes as "a roving band of van-driving vegans who shaved their heads, avoided speaking to men unless they were waiters or mechanics, and lived on the highways of North America for several years, stopping only on Women's Land. The Van Dykes had determined that the world was suffering from 'testosterone poisoning,' and they were on a quest: to locate dyke heaven." It's a terrific story, written without any of the condescension toward the counter-culture or lesbian feminism that one usually encounters in such pieces. (H/T to Candy Man for calling Levy's story to our attention and to Historiann, who blogged it yesterday.)

So stay tuned, folks. We'll see if Moose decides to celebrate the monumental birthday by ordering the complete Golden Girls on DVD -- or by hitting the road and getting a tattoo. In the meantime, thanks to all y'all for being our friends. Peace out.

Pre-Debate Pub Crawl

(Updated.)

There is enormous relief at Ishmael's, the seedy yet cozy bar around the corner from the global headquarters of RW Enterprises, LLC, over the news that Republican John McCain has relented on his threat to bail out of tonight's scheduled presidential debate if there wasn't an agreement on the plan to force American taxpayers to rescue the irresponsible fat cats in the financial industry who seem intent on bringing you Great Depression 2.0. Fortunately, after yesterday's big confab at the White House, where McCain spent 40 minutes saying not much of anything, the Republican nominee awoke from his nap and realized he was running for president. He announced this afternoon that sufficient progress had been made in the negotiations to allow him to tear himself away from the cesspool of Washington and participate in the debate after all.

Ishmael's proprietor Peter Coffin is relieved because he recently pulled down some of the grimy old oil paintings (fishing scenes, mostly) that for decades had adorned the walls of his place and installed a bank of gleaming new plasma TVs as part of his effort to bring in a more up-scale clientèle. He was planning to debut the TVs tonight in a big debate watch with a Hawaiian-themed happy hour -- a clever marketing device and an homage, of course, to Barack Obama's birthplace. (You'll recall that Peter had an Alaska-themed happy hour a couple of weeks ago, in tribute to GOP vice presidential nominee Sarah Palin. Peter is a fair-and-balanced kind of guy, and Ishmael's is a cheerfully post-partisan establishment. No matter who takes office in January, 2009, Peter will be ready from Day One to take their money and keep them drunk.)

(Image Credit: AllPosters.com)

So the debate is on, and Peter is behind the bar, checking on his supplies of rum, curaçao, pineapple juice, and strawberries, hoping he'll be moving a steady stream of Blue Hawaiis and Lava Flows all evening long. He had to take out a second mortgage on the place to finance the TVs, and he has a hunch Congress won't be willing to come to his rescue should his happy-hour plan not succeed.

As Peter works and worries, the new TVs flicker with an assortment of images. Conveniently, they are tuned to different channels, and each shows a different story Roxie's World has managed to overlook in the course of a busy week. Luckily for us, our faithful readers have been tuned in and sending us a steady stream of gentle suggestions, most of which boil down to, "WTF, Roxie? Why aren't you paying attention to this?" We hear you, people, and we appreciate your noses for news. Let's take a look at Peter's big TVs, 'kay?

You are correct, Roxie Fan and Dudley's Human, we somehow managed to miss the metamorphosis of CNN's Campbell Brown into the feistiest chick in American political journalism. Let's call her Femme Non-PhD to distinguish her from MSNBC's Rachel Maddow, still known in these precincts as Butch PhD, even if we are grievously disappointed by what we've seen of Maddow's new star vehicle of a show. So far, Maddow is proving to be as in the tank for the Democratic nominee as all the boys on MSNBC, which has made their recent political analysis worth about as much as a share of Washington Mutual. Meantime, Brown has been offering political commentaries that are crisp, incisive, and edgy without being mean. They are a refreshing alternative to the unilluminating ravings of MSNBC's overly righteous and under-medicated Keith Olbermann. Take a listen to Brown going after the McCain campaign for keeping Sarah Palin away from the press. She rightly calls such protectionism sexist and demands that the campaign "free Palin" and allow her to stand on her own to face the scrutiny such a high-level candidate deserves:



You go, Alma Dale! We like the spunk and the smarts.

On the next screen, we've got a clip of Diane Schroer, the transgender woman who recently prevailed in a sex discrimination suit against the Library of Congress, which rescinded a job offer to Schroer after learning that she was transitioning from being a man to a woman. Schroer is a retired Army colonel and former special forces commander who specialized in tracking international terrorists but was denied a position as a terrorism research analyst with the LOC's Congressional Research Service. She won earlier this week in federal court, and Congressman Barney Frank, in his latest act of contrition for betraying the trans community in last year's battle over ENDA, immediately wrote to the Library urging it not to appeal the judge's decision. (H/T to a beloved Homo Librarian who works deep in the bowels of the federal government and keeps us up to date on what's happening on the Hill.)

Congratulations and a rousing chorus of "(You Make Me Feel) Like a Natural Woman" to Schroer, who tells her story in this video by the ACLU, which represented her in her suit:



Oh, and speaking of Barney Frank, let's pretend that we have video of him getting off the best line of this busy week, apropos of McCain's decision to suspend campaigning because of the financial crisis. Frank said of the move, "It's the longest Hail Mary pass in the history of either football or Marys." Oh, Barn, we love it when you go all camp on us! (H/T to T'Other Homo Victorianist, who feeds us even if he doesn't read us.)

Finally, because happy hour is fast approaching, and Peter thinks a music video will warm up the early birds, here's something else our pal Dudley sent our way, a very goofy song on the defenders of marriage by funny man Roy Zimmerman. We recommend it because we are in awe of anyone who can find a way to work a line like "two people who want to provide a protected and nurturing family environment" into a song. We'll have to see if we can get Zimmerman to join in our next game of Palintology. Betcha this guy could write one heckuva Palin-ode:



That's it for now, kids. We've still got a bunch of stuff in the mailbag, so don't get all hurt if we didn't work yours in here. Not everything is suitable for a Friday afternoon happy hour post, but the weekend has just begun. Settle down on this barstool right next to us, and order yourself some Coconut Shrimp to go with that Lava Flow Peter just sat down in front of you. C'mon, gentle readers. You know the Friday rule of Roxie's World: Belly up to the bar -- It's five o'clock somewhere. Bottoms up!

Update: We're not the only ones planning to drink our way through tonight's debate. Check out these excellent rules for a presidential debate drinking game, picked up on Feministe by way of our blog pal the Red Queen. Here's a teaser, just to give you a sense of the game:

• Every time someone mentions “hope” or “change,” drink.
• Drink double every time the mention of “change” comes from McCain.
• For every mention of “my fellow Americans,” drink.
• Every time the candidate steers away from the question asked to highlight his own talking points (we call that a Palin), drink twice.
• For every mention of “Main Street,” drink.

Feel free to add rules of your own. Our suggestion? Every time someone makes a positive reference to George W. Bush, take a huge drink, because it may be your last chance!

Readers' Reports

What an intrepid lot you are, my legions of loyal fans. You are all out there like a virtual pack of bloodhounds, your wet little noses to the ground of the great big internets, always in search of fresh material for this happy little blog. Today we honor your devotion and your keen sleuthing skills with a post comprised almost entirely of suggestions we have gotten from you. Keep 'em coming, kids. You know the motto of Roxie's World: Without you, I'm just an old dog with two funny moms and a laptop. With you, I've got a whole world in my paws.

We begin by noting that it was the creative genius behind Queering the Apparatus who first alerted us to the news that Chris Matthews had caved in (to pressure from women's groups and liberal blogs like this one) and offered an on-air apology for outrageous remarks he recently made about Senator Hillary Clinton. Invoking a Bushian good heart/clumsy tongue defense, Matthews acknowledges that his assertion that Clinton owed her entire independent political career to the fact that "her husband messed around" came across as "callous," "nasty," and "dismissive," but he ignores the broader critique that he is, um, an idiotic jerk who makes law-abiding urban citizens wish they had cows so that they would have cattle guns around every time he opens his mouth. Transcript of Tweety's half-hearted apology is here. Watch the vid, but only if your cattle gun is safely stored:



Next, because we just haven't spent enough time arguing and obsessing about Hillary Clinton, we pass along the news, via Dog-Eared Book and Dudley the Beagle, of the impending publication of two books to aid in the projects of historicizing and deconstructing the junior senator from New York. (You didn't have other plans for spring, did you?) The first will give comfort to those who think Clinton hasn't gotten a fair shake from the media (though we can't imagine who those bitter, myopic individuals might be). Erika Falk's Women for President: Media Bias in Eight Campaigns begins with the campaign of another one of our heroes, 19th-century sex radical Victoria Woodhull, who ran for president in 1872, and ends with the short-lived 2004 campaign of former senator Carol Mosley Braun. Falk studies the tendency of the American press to portray female candidates as "unviable, unnatural, and incompetent" and to "ignore or belittle women instead of reporting their ideas and intent." No, really? Is that why we don't hear much about John McCain's cleavage or Mitt Romney's pants? (Scott McLemee has a review of the book at Inside Higher Ed.)

The second book is a collection edited by New Yorker editor Susan Morrison called Thirty Ways of Looking at Hillary: Reflections by Women Writers. (Did the title's allusion go over your head? Click here, and give thanks to Hilda Doolittle, director of our department of literary in-jokes and allusions.) We're not sure why the editor overlooked Roxie's World when she was gathering pieces for the collection, but the mere anticipation of the book has already inspired an absolutely hilarious column by the San Francisco Chronicle's Jon Carroll, who ponders why it is that male writers have not had the courage to discuss male candidates "in terms of their ability to wrestle with the challenges of manitude." It goes a long way toward explaining why voters know so dangerously little about John McCain's cleavage.

Enough about you humans. Here are a couple of dog treats readers have recently sniffed out for us. One of Moose's students (whose privacy will be protected, because we are big believers in the Buckley Amendment around here) sent us this tantalizing report about Hungarian scientists working on computer software for analyzing dog barks so that humans can better understand dogs' basic emotions. Note to the well-meaning Hungarian scientists: Why don't you just read the dogs' blogs??? Also, the Shy One sent us a link to this New York Times story on the healing power (for humans) of dogs. The story promotes yet another new book, this one by Sharon Sakson, Paws and Effect: The Healing Power of Dogs. To heck with a healthy diet, people! You want lower cholesterol? Go snuggle a dog!

We'll end by sending out a grateful PAWS UP to all our devoted fans and a fun video sent to us by the head of a small but passionate group, Classicists Against Bush. (Why not? Bush never liked the Grecians anyway.) Click on over to it. (We had it embedded here but didn't like the way it looked. The department of eye candy said it had to come down. Picky, picky, picky.)

Call Me (at) Ishmael's

From the Department of Paranormal Communication

I believe that the trade of critic, in literature, music, and the drama, is the most degraded of all trades, and that it has no real value -- certainly no large value . . . However, let it go. It is the will of God that we must have critics, and missionaries, and congressmen, and humorists, and we must bear the burden.
-- Mark Twain's Autobiography

Mark Twain, director of the Office of Persona Management for Roxie’s World, is in a bar called Ishmael’s, around the corner from RW Enterprises, LLC global headquarters, eating fried mozzarella sticks and drinking whiskey in front of a large-screen TV. Twain has been despondent and drinking heavily for several days over concern that Moose’s recent lecture at Rutgers University on the subject of this blog and blogging generally would compromise the integrity of my persona as sole owner and proprietor of Roxie’s World. At my behest, Moose tracks him down at the bar for a talk.

Moose: Hey, Mark. How’s it going?

Mark: Oh, it’s you. Back from your little road show, are you?

Moose: Yeah. Hey, look, no hard feelings, eh? What do you say we get back to work? Roxie wants to get the whole creative team together to talk about next steps. How ‘bout having a cup of coffee, maybe some eggs, and heading back to the office with me?

Mark: I’m enjoying these fried cheese sticks, thank you. An amazing culinary feat, you know – We didn’t have these back in my day. We ate actual food then. But what do you mean by “next steps?” It’s hard to un-ring a bell, Moose. The damage you did in your lecture was incalculable, devastating. What are Roxie’s readers supposed to think when you stand up publicly and speak for Roxie’s World? That’s not what you’re supposed to do around here! You’re merely a typist, a researcher, a critic, for heaven’s sake, and you know my opinion of critics –

Moose: Yes, yes, I know, Mark – the most degraded of all trades – but that’s really all I was doing at Rutgers – speaking as a critic about the development of the persona, the growth of the audience, and the relationship between and among words, images, music, and video in Roxie’s World.

Mark: Images are very important, you know. My books were always so nicely illustrated.

Moose: Absolutely. That Edward Kemble fellow did some amazing work on Huck Finn – Such spare, simple drawings, yet so evocative, despite the unfortunate appeal to the race and gender stereotypes of the day.

Mark: The what? Oh, never mind. Bartender, I’ll have another whiskey and bring the lady – may I call you that? – bring the lady –

Moose: I’ll have an extremely dry martini, up, with olives, and another round of those mozzarella sticks. This may take awhile. As I was saying, Mark, I really don’t think my lecture should be any cause for concern. I devoted a whole section to your office and to the important work you do maintaining the integrity not only of the central persona but of all the identities in Roxie’s World. In fact, that’s one of the reasons we need you back in the office soon. We’ve got a problem with a persona we’ve come up with for a new reader. She has some ambivalence about it, and I think we may need to go back to the drawing board.

Mark: All due respect, Moose, but you are way out of your depth on this. You have no idea how essential persona integrity is to what we’re doing in Roxie’s World. It is everything, and I mean everything! If our readers should come to doubt their belief in Roxie, we are doomed. If they come to suspect that she is really you, next thing you know some nincompoop is writing a book called Was Roxie Gay? And then where are we? Up the Mississippi without a paddle, I tell you.

Moose: I really think you’re over-reacting, Mark. Our readers are more discerning than that. And you and Roxie and the creative team are better than that.

Mark: An author values a compliment even when it comes from a source of doubtful competency, but spare me the flattery, madame, and pass the marinara sauce. We have other problems arising from your lecture, you know. While you had your head in the clouds of meta-blogging, the world continued to spin on its axis, and Roxie’s World has fallen woefully far behind. (He glances toward the TV, which is playing images of chaos in the streets of Pakistan.) It’s high time we updated our Benazir Bhutto Death Watch, for example. They’ve got her under house arrest now, and Musharraf is insisting that the best way to defend democracy is to destroy it. I’m thinking that brave woman’s days may be numbered.

Moose: I know, and I’m sorry we haven’t been on the story. It’s perfect for us – a beautiful, intelligent woman with a voice like melted butter and the courage to face death to help save her country –

Mark: (With a sidewise glance at Moose) Melted butter? Guess I’m not the only one trapped by the race and gender stereotypes of my day, eh? In any case, we’ve also been ignoring the presidential race here in the U.S., where another beautiful, intelligent woman who hopes to save her country is getting heat from a couple of fellas who seem to think that one politician calling another politician “calculating” is likely to strike voters as something other than a pot calling a kettle black. Excuse me – Was that racist?

Moose: I don’t think so. Joe Klein has a wonderful piece on exactly that subject in the latest Time. He argues that what some call calculation, he would call principle and that Hillary Clinton and her husband have been pretty consistent over the years in being moderate problem-solvers, willing to make deals in order to “get stuff done,” as Bill Clinton puts it, for the American people. Klein insists that the senator has become a very effective campaigner who doesn’t come across as the robot a lot of the coverage tries to conjure up. John Dickerson also has a piece in Slate on Clinton’s appeal to women voters in Iowa. According to him, the more the male candidates go after Clinton, the more women voters gravitate toward her. You know, Mark, my theory is that every time some guy calls her “Hillary,” ten women voters swing her way.

Mark: Interesting theory, Moose. When you’re through pretending to be a writer, you might try pretending to be a political analyst. And do I need to point out that the college basketball season has started and your beloved Lady and non-Lady Terps are already back in action? Shoulders and her crew knocked off #6 Oklahoma the other night, and Shoulders was named the ACC’s first Player of the Week for the season – but did Roxie’s World have anything to say about it, though our good pals the BasketCases did?

Moose: I know, I know, Mark, I hear you. Look, I realize this lecture has been a big distraction for all of us, but the guys in Clicks and Eyeballs are pretty happy with the new readers we’ve picked up, and I swear we’re back to regular programming now. We need you back in the office, though. I’m really stuck on this persona management problem. I mean, what would you call a gregarious Victorianist who loves opera, hates New York Times columnist Maureen Dowd, and deplores the fact that any expression of deep feeling is dismissed as “sentimental?” We tried “Anti-Mo Do,” but she feels it’s too limiting. I kind of like the Gregarious Victorianist, but I think we might come up with something even better with your help.

Mark: (With a sigh and picking up his coat) Moose, [you] must have a prodigious quantity of mind; it takes [you] as much as a week sometimes to make it up. Coffee to go, bartender. I’ve got work to do.

Absences, Anniversaries

You've missed me, haven't you, devoted denizens of Roxie's World? I know. I've missed you, too. I sensed your restless fingers out there, pointing and clicking and pressing "reload" again and again, hoping for news on my fish, my moms, ACC basketball. I felt the waves of your affection and concern wafting through the blogosphere, as you wondered: Is Roxie's leaky heart okay? Did Moose stop typing for Roxie because she broke all ten fingers in frustration after the non-Lady Terps managed to lose another game to Miami in the ACC tournament? Did Goose awaken from her dream of fish and get the pond cleaned out, or what?

It's a long story, fans, and there's a lot I can't tell you because it involves work-related stress that the moms have said I can't discuss. Nonetheless, everything is fine in Roxie's World. All three fish are present and accounted for, though John is in a deep sleep on the bottom of the pond. Paul and George-Ringo are being a little more active, but the big guy hugs the floor and barely moves. Goose says it's because he's a poet. He's resting and gathering inspiration from the cold, dark depths of his unconscious. Whatever. I'm just surprised he's not snoring. I snore when I sleep that deeply.

March is a big month here in Roxie's World. The 8th, in addition to being International Women's Day, is the moms' anniversary, so Moose and Goose officially commemorated Twenty-Three Years of Queer Delight on Thursday. Moose celebrates her birthday later in the month, but the new anniversary on the calendar this year belongs to yours truly.

Yes, fans, this coming Monday, March 12, the best darn dog blog devoted to politics, pop culture, and basketball will celebrate its first birthday! Can you believe it? Let's celebrate!

Perhaps tomorrow we'll post a Best of Roxie's First Year in the Blogosphere list as part of the birthday party. Or maybe my loyal fans will comb their way through the archives and nominate some of their favorite posts through comments. What's your favorite? My withering critique of Notes on a Scandal? My stunningly accurate predictions about the mid-term elections? The eloquent meditation on time, age, and the body that I offered last year to celebrate the arrival of spring as my moms and I grappled with how to manage my heart condition? You decide, gentle readers, and let us know. In the meantime, we thank you for your devotion. Without you, I'd just be an old dog with two crazy moms and a laptop. With you, I've got a whole world in my paws.

Peace out.

Send In the Twins

(Photo Credit: Moose; Easy-to-Read Anti-War Posters Designed and Painted by: Moose)

First things first: A heart-felt apology to my legions of loyal fans for the unconscionable delay between posts. Per usual, it's my moms' fault. I won't say things have been stressful for them lately, but they did go see Kathleen Turner the other night in the stunning revival of Edward Albee's Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? and left the theater howling with delight. "What an utterly charming romantic comedy!" Moose said to Goose. To which Goose replied, "Oh, yes, and one based on a couple just like us--together for 23 years and 6 years apart in age! It's so seldom you see a great love story focused on middle-aged characters!" "You are so right, Goose. And, just like us, George and Martha had mutual interests and activities that kept their relationship fresh--the drinking, the verbal jousting, the comments about aging, the drinking. I'm surprised we never decided to have an imaginary baby. I think we would have been good at that, don't you?"

As I've told you before, my moms are weird, but I'm glad that instead of an imaginary baby they had a real dog. I'm also glad that one of the shared interests that has kept their relationship fresh as a daisy (and slightly less combustible than George and Martha's) is a passion for peace and liberal politics. (Yes, liberal. My moms think the term progressive is a wienie-word that evades noble Democratic traditions of expanding rights, shared responsibilities, and international cooperation that we ought to be proud to claim.) So of course they hopped on a Metro train yesterday for the big anti-war protest in downtown Washington. My moms just love a good demo, and yesterday's was delightful. The day was sunny and warm, the company was congenial, and the crowd was impressive. Several fans and citizens of Roxie's World were there, including my Official Gay Stalker, the Man Who Will Cure Cancer, Aaron the Anatomically Obsessed Six-Year-Old (and his grandmother), Margie the Eco-Warrior, and Alicia, my Favorite Poet Against the War. They got there in time to hear most of the speeches, including those by Maxine Waters and Jane Fonda, which were especially righteous and moving. They were able to march together without too much difficulty. They kept running into a sizable contingent of folks from Code Pink as well as an impressive group of large-headed papier-mache puppets of Bush, Cheney, Rumsfeld, and Rice dressed in prison stripes and all chained together. They saw many clever signs, a lot of sad and angry ones, and one tee-shirt that said Vagina Warrior, which provoked squeals of glee from the Anatomically Obsessed Six-Year Old. All along the route, people kept stopping Moose to photograph her "Send in the Twins" sign, which of course delighted her endlessly. She thinks it's one of her best posters ever.

Roxie's World will not get into the debate about how big the march was, though Margie, who has done a lot of marching in her day, estimated it at about 200,000. From a political standpoint, it's probably more important that the visuals were compelling and that the march is being followed up by a day of lobbying Congress on Monday. Another thing that really impressed Margie, Moose, and Goose (or, as Moose sardonically termed their mini-contingent, the Hormonally Unbalanced Radicals for Peace) were the large numbers of young people in the crowd who weren't there because their aging hippie parents had dragged them along. The Post even had a separate article devoted to youth involvement in the anti-war movement. It reports that, "Many students mentioned the case of Ehren Watada -- the U.S. Army lieutenant facing a court martial for refusing to deploy to Iraq -- as an important step in building a cohesive antiwar movement."

Roxie's World is proud to celebrate all fighters for peace and all those who inspire others to get up off their couches and take a stand for a better world. We give yesterday's march a Five-Paw Rating and an enthusiastic Roxie's World Seal of Approval. But remember, kids, a march is not a movement, and a good slogan never ended a war. March today, but be ready to work your hearts tomorrow--and tomorrow--and tomorrow. . . .

Peace out, friends.



(Photo Credit: Jason Rudy)

Call Me Inspirational

One of the nice things about being famous is the opportunities it affords for inspiring greatness in others. I am pleased to share with you a rather striking example of the genius unleashed by Roxie's World. In the picture above, you see a sculpture of ME, Roxie, in metal, brilliantly designed and executed by my friend Aaron, one of my youngest yet most devoted fans. Aaron is six. He is the son of the Official Gay Stalker of Roxie's World and of a research scientist Moose refers to as the Man Who Will Cure Cancer, so he comes by his devotion and his genius honestly. As you can see, Aaron is a postmodern visionary, with a keen sense of irony and whimsy and no slavish devotion to the literal, however devoted he may be to yours truly. The sculpture is a sublime sequel to a painting Aaron did a year or so ago, a bold mix of oranges, purples, and greens that he called "Aaron Petting Roxie." The painting has pride of place on the front of my moms' refrigerator. Aaron's ability to produce great work in different media is reminiscent of Picasso. My moms can testify to this, because they spent a whole lot of time at the Picasso Museum in Paris this past summer. They were visiting during a wicked heat wave, and the museum was one of the coolest places in the city. (Read about their trip and their long, happy day in the Picasso Museum here.)

Aaron's touching tribute has set me to musing. I wonder what flights of fancy and fabulousness I might be unleashing in the hearts of all my adoring fans from sea to shining sea and all around the great big world. Yes, it's true, gentle readers, we have an invisible hit counter on Roxie's World, so I know you're all out there now--from Brooklyn, New York to Klamath Falls, Oregon and all the way to the Netherlands and Singapore. I know you're out there, and I love you, love you all. And I know you love me, too. Have I inspired your dogs to want blogs of their own--or wizard costumes for Halloween? Have I filled you with dreams of revolutionary change or kept you up late scribbling "Lines for Roxie" on yellow stickies that you hide under your pillow when your significant other rolls over and asks what you're doing? Are you thinking of making needlepoint images of me on pillows for all the people on your holiday gift lists? Or imagining how a velvet Roxie portrait would look on the wall of your living room?

It's okay, kids, your secrets are safe here in Roxie's World, though your IP addresses are known. If you're not inspired to dream, you might as well be dead, so go ahead: Dream on me.

A Dog's Thanksgiving

I have so much to be thankful for this year. Mostly, I am just awfully glad to still be here after my epic battles with congestive heart failure and pancreatitis earlier in the year. I am grateful to my moms for taking such good care of me--for the long trips to Bowie to see my canine cardiologist, for the many hours in the kitchen concocting good things for me to eat when my meds messed with my appetite, for their patience with my occasional incontinence and my new lower energy levels (though I will point out that our holiday weekend festivities included a 3-mile walk out on my trail). I am also grateful to YOU, my legions of friends and fans here in Roxie's World, who held me in the light during the scary moments and celebrated with me during the joyous ones. You all taught me that the blogosphere is like the "real" world in one very important way: Love makes the virtual world go 'round, too, if you're lucky enough to find it and to hold onto it once you do.

I raise my paws to every one of you and wish you health, happiness, and peace during this holiday season. May the world find more of all three in the coming days. May the citizens of the world join together to create more of all three in the coming days.

I asked my moms what they were feeling thankful for this year. They rolled their eyes, rubbed my ears, and said, at the same time, "You, silly, and your other mother." Then they said they were both grateful that Democrats would be taking over Congress in the new year, even though they are reasonably certain the Dems will find ways to disappoint them once they are in a position to actually do something again. Still, here's a short but good list of reasons to be grateful about the shift in power in the Congress, which includes the fact that Bill Frist will no longer be Senate majority leader and that George Bush will be a lame duck faced with a Democratic majority in both houses. There is much to be thankful for in those changes alone.

Moose and Goose are also very thankful that Goose wasn't seriously hurt in the accident that cut short the life of their trusty Subaru. They are still sad to have lost the rugged little wagon that could, but they are looking forward to getting a Prius for Christmas and having a car that is just a bit gentler on the planet. That's my moms for ya: Hand 'em a lemon, and they'll whip up a batch of lemonade on the spot. Goose will slip in some vodka, Moose will set out some snacks, and--presto!--it's a party, kids! Seriously, the Post ran an article this morning on the gathering, indisputable evidence of climate change and how animals, businesses, and regional planners are adjusting to it. (Read it here.) Moose read it and thought, yet again, of all the precious time that has been wasted in the past few years on the pressing problem of how to sustain life on this planet over the long haul.

On a lighter note, we are all thankful that the college basketball season is underway and that so far at least both the Maryland women's and men's teams are undefeated, while both Duke and North Carolina have already suffered losses at the hands of less highly ranked teams. (Pardon us while we indulge in a hearty shout of "nanny nanny boo boo, nanny nanny boo boo!") We're not exactly "thankful" for comedian Michael Richards' insane racist diatribe during a recent comedy performance (see part of the rant and his "apology" on Letterman here), but we do feel vindicated in never having liked Seinfeld, which always bored or annoyed us. We'd be even more grateful if, in the coming year, we would hear a whole lot less about the following profoundly uninteresting people or things: Tom Cruise, Kevin Federline, Paris Hilton (whoever she is), Brangelina, the latest makeover show, the latest "reality" show, the latest attractive young white woman to disappear under mysterious circumstances. Oh, yeah, and Donald Rumsfeld. We look forward to hearing nothing from him in a matter of moments.

Human or canine, large breed or small, shedding or non-shedding, we hope that you enjoyed a bounteous feast this weekend and that you feel rested and ready for the chilly, busy season ahead. Let us know what you're feeling thankful for, ye humble denizens of Roxie's World. We hope you need all the toes on all your paws to count your blessings and that you'll find ways to share your blessings with others. Hokey as that might sound, it's a dog-gone good way to be. Peace out, friends.