Après moi, le déluge

That's what Louis XV said shortly before he passed away. He said it because he realized the financial stability of the kingdom was doomed and we all know what happened to his heir, Louis XVI, and his lovely bride, Marie Antoinette. Hopefully, Bush's successor won't meet as unpleasant a fate.



But here at the Outermost Point, that all seems like another world to me and the biped. Sunday, the biped got to see a couple shows as part of the Tennessee Williams' festival: Love Scenes from Eccentricities of a Nightingale--in which his friend from NYC, Todd Gearheart of Law and Order and Loew's fame, had a starring role--and Olympia Dukakis' conversation with Williams' expert David Kaplan. The biped said they were both spectacular.



As if that wasn't enough, the biped went on a shopping spree Sunday. What do I get to do while he's running around the stores? Wait in the car!



He waits until all the rain has passed, of course, before buying me a new raincoat.




I wasn't crazy about either of them, but he bought me the red one. He likes the hoods and he said the yellow washed me out. Whatever.

I've been somewhat piqued by his erratic behavior lately, so I've been calling him names like Long-Legged Mack Daddy and the like. He acts like he doesn't even hear me though. He's on Cloud 9 because his buyers got their financing--miracle of miracles. So we move on October 10th. I sure won't miss the stairs in this old place, I can tell you that much!

The Sky is Falling

What do you do when you see the world end? Who knows what really is going to happen, but the biped is in absolute hysterics. All I want is another Greenie. It has occurred to me, though, when he's in the alms house, who's going to buy me that expensive dogfood I'm used to.

My favorite commentator on this is, as always, the inimitable Paul Krugman. A stunner:

So what we now have is non-functional government in the face of a major crisis, because Congress includes a quorum of crazies and nobody trusts the White House an inch. As a friend said last night, we’ve become a banana republic with nukes.

Crazies and nukes? Isn't that what Americans used to say about the USSR?

To celebrate the fall of the Ancien Regime, in good French aristocrat style, the biped took me shopping. More on that later.

Marché aux Fleurs

What's better on a rainy day than flowers? The biped's neighbor Mark just rang the bell and handed him a beautiful bouquet of dahlias in all different colors. Aren't they gorgeous?





He said it was to help brighten his day and bring him closer to his closing. The biped is beside himself as you might imagine, but I just think they're pretty. But then, I'm easily distracted.

Rainy Days and...Saturdays

It's been a two-day washout so far, and the weatherman says there is more on the way. Too bad for the Tennessee Williams' Festival that's going on in town. The biped has a friend, Todd, appearing in Eccentricities of a Nightingale on Sunday, too! Break a leg!



And as if we didn't need further encouragement to stay in bed all day, we just heard that Paul Newman has died.

Au Revoir Les Fagots

Well, the biped has been talking to the media today. It can't be a good thing. He got home late last night and was raving. His wig was askew and his eyeliner had smeared. Someone had stolen his opal earrings. I'm not sure what he was doing in the bathroom, but this morning I found the remote control there and huge wads of rolled up toilet paper soaking wet littering the bathroom floor.

It had to be the Fag Bash Farewell Party. They called it the Fag Ball. It sounds like the biped had a good time.

I have no idea what look the biped was going for, but he ended up looking like a down-on-her-luck blackjack dealer from Carson City. I guess his date was Pam Greer. That is Pam Greer, isn't it?



The biped's hair. A Paul Mitchell emergency.



Apparently, Pam had a dance interlude during the ball.



I have no idea.



This is Cowboy Bryan as Starsky. Or is it Hutch?



Don't worry. it's a prosthetic.





After that, I can't think of a single thing to say.

Götterdämmerung

It's the Twilight of the Gods on Wall Street. And Dog knows (we all know that god is dog spelled backwards, right?) that I have plenty more to say about Hanky Panky, but when it's such a beautiful day, like Scarlett O'Hara, I can't wrap my head around figures.



The biped took me on several bike rides up and down Commercial Street. You can tell the season is winding down when you suddenly see everyone you know on Commercial Street. By the end of September, townies feel like they might make it down the street in their cars without fighting every cyclist and wandering tourist in Dog's creation. We saw Gerry, Steve, Peter, Scott, Frank, Danny, Mark, Chris, Mary Jo, Michelle, Woody, Rich, Patrick, George, and Louann.

We also saw Maria and her daughter Britney and that baby. It's Maria's granddaughter and I think her name is Amara or something like that. Babies for small chihuahuas are like the boogeyman. They're terrifying. They're erratic and unpredictable. They're also like giants without a conscience. But I do my best to deal with the baby, as long as she keeps herself at paw's length.







I leave you with two tidbits. A column from Gloria Steinem (thanks to Megan for the forward) in the LA Times about Sarah Palin. My favorite quote:

Palin shares nothing but a chromosome with Clinton. Her down-home, divisive and deceptive speech did nothing to cosmeticize a Republican convention that has more than twice as many male delegates as female, a presidential candidate who is owned and operated by the right wing and a platform that opposes pretty much everything Clinton's candidacy stood for -- and that Barack Obama's still does. To vote in protest for McCain/Palin would be like saying, "Somebody stole my shoes, so I'll amputate my legs."

And this fact: Hank Paulson was the assistant to John Ehrlichman from 1972-1973, the period leading up to Ehrlichman's resignation and conviction on conspiracy and obstruction charges during the Nixon administration.

Lazy Bones

Goodness gracious! I slept so late today! The biped has been up for hours watching the Senate hearings with Bernanke, Paulson and Cox, the financial world's Three Musketeers. I guess that means Christopher Dodd plays the part of Richelieu....interesting.



I have to lay in the sun for a little while before I can even think about a cup of coffee or turning on C-SPAN. It's all too much too soon!

Paulson's Dutch Oven

Listen, as an extremely small canine, I understand what it means to feel hemmed in at every turn. Powerless. Voiceless and out of control. But when I need to, I can bark loud. I have no doubt that Hank Paulson, our Treasury Secretary and the former chief of Goldman Sachs (he spent his career at GS, where the biped also worked for awhile, and he clearly lives by the culture and worldview that large corporations construct) believes he is doing everything he can to stave off a financial meltdown, but demanding Congress enact a bill that gives him absolute and total authority over a $700 billion cash account is beyond belief.

The Huffington Post has a nice op-ed that details the issues. Here's a piece:

In short, the so-called "mother of all bailouts," which will transfer $700 billion taxpayer dollars to purchase the distressed assets of several failed financial institutions, will be conducted in a manner unchallengeable by courts and ungovernable by the People's duly sworn representatives. All decision-making power will be consolidated into the Executive Branch - who, we remind you, will have the incentive to act upon this privilege as quickly as possible, before they leave office. The measure will run up the budget deficit by a significant amount, with no guarantee of recouping the outlay, and no fundamental means of holding those who fail to do so accountable.

Write your congressman. Call your senator. Call anyone and tell them that Congress must have the power of oversight on this unbelievable bailout for Wall Street. Otherwise, Paulson's going to be pushing all of our heads under the covers.

It's Fallful

This sticker was posted on the devastated house at 162 Commercial Street. I love it.

And some enterprising local gay man created this very appropriate vignette.



If this is a sign of things to come, it's going to be a fun Halloween. And word on Commercial Street is that Art's Dune Tours will be doing a Halloween Dune Tour this year, on either October 31st or November 1st. Rob is always looking for volunteers to help out in the dunes and it's a great time. I'm thinking of signing up myself. I can be quite scary when large labradors or retrievers are around! Pop the link above and email Rob if you're interested.

Otherwise, fall seems to have really set in. Commercial Street's carnival of summer is gone--cars can actually make it down the street now without too much trouble! Here's Frank--he has plenty of time to cruise Commercial Street and yell at people now that Relish has closed (but they're still selling cookies!).



And I have to wear my sweatshirt when the biped takes me on a bike ride!



And the harbor, full of boats only a few short weeks ago, is now emptier and emptier as you can see from the clip.



The low, gray sky and the cold, gray ocean have us squeezed in between here at Land's End. So now we just wait it out until springtime. I hope I get to go to Palm Springs this winter!

Breaking Water

Whenever things in town get me down, the biped's friends often tell me to focus on what is worthwhile about Provincetown. Over the past few days, I've had a lot of fun and also been lucky enough to experience some of the natural wonder of this incredibly beautiful place.

A few seconds of tonight's sunset for those of you who missed it. The water was so calm.



But yesterday, the wind was high and the water was roaring. Here are a couple clips from my trip with the biped out to the West End breakwater.





And the biped took this coming over the dunes in a beach taxi onto Race Point beach facing the roaring Atlantic.



Those things, at least, will always be here--sunsets and beaches and waves. Thanks to the Cape Cod National Seashore for making sure no one subdivides or McMansionizes our beautiful dunes and beachfronts.

Historic Disintegration

You know, I didn't choose to live in this town. The choice was made for me. But there are aspects of it that are beautiful and that I've come to love and appreciate. And too often, I am watching those things be demolished one by one. The latest offense is the George Elmer Browne house at 162 Commercial Street. Here's a picture of it from about 60 years ago.



Browne (1871-1946) was a well-known artist from the early twentieth century and he ran an art school in Provincetown from about 1919 until his death. Here in a picture from 1918 he is recognized as one of the founders of the Beachcombers and an early member of the Provincetown Art Association and Museum and recognized as one of the leaders of the art colony. He is second from the right in the second row.



Here's a painting of his that hangs in Town Hall.



These images are from the Provincetown History Preservation Project website, a project the biped has been working on--but I digress. Here is the house today.



The real estate agency that occupied the building went to the Town and asked for a demolition permit. The Town said that this was a historic building and they should retain the shell. The biped and I biked by while they had a backhoe that was wielded in the most violent way imaginable, slamming into the back side of the building, recklessly tearing at a two story addition and destabilizing the building. After nearly destroying the house, the builder went back to the Town to ask for a demolition permit given the damage (that they caused??) and was fortunately denied. They will continue their work, however, chipping away bit by bit at this now devastated historic structure, the home of Browne and his art school, we believe, for many years.

Here's another view. Notice the central brick chimney has been completely ripped out, too.



Another piece of Provincetown gone. Just like the home at 531 Commercial Street that was demolished in secret. The builders and owners were penalized but ultimately got their way--and now have been paid back by being included in the Historic Home Tour sponsored by the Pilgrim Monument and Provincetown Museum. Another scandal.

But I'm just a dog. I shouldn't even care about these things. I'm not even supposed to have a sense of history. That's what people are supposed to have.

Where There Is Smoke

It feels a little like the Fall of the Roman Empire, doesn't it? Nero fiddles while Rome burns? Maybe it's just September, but here in Provincetown, everyone loves a party. The biped appeared out of the dark last night in a dune truck and we motored out to the dunes for a moonlight drive. Here I am relieving myself in the dunes last night.



The moon was a piece of silver and it lit up the surf curling onto the beach like electric lights. It was a beautiful ride, except for my arch-nemesis, Gus. He's a jug, a jack russell-golden retriever mix. I'm sorry, I mean jack russell-pug mix. His bidep says he's going to get another jug so he can walk around asking people if they want to take a look at his jugs.



And as if that wasn't enough, the biped ran off to something called a Fag Bash. It sounds like it's against the law to me. And it looks like it, too. Here are some pics. I will refrain from naming names at this point.




And then there was a little house party where I guess you had to wear a wig to get in. Looks like the end of the world to me!




This is Thirsty Burlington. She's famous.




I had my own dance party at home, here's a little clip of it.

Townie Summer

September comes and there's nothing but bonfires. Last night was particularly nice--the weather was warm. It was comfortable to be on the beach and there were two bonfires to go to. Even the water was warm, so I'm told, because I won't go near the stuff.

The sunset was particularly nice. Hopefully you can make out the beautiful pink and purple undertones of the clouds from the setting sun.



The first bonfire was at Herring Cove. I guess this is the bipeds' idea of a joke: putting me in the back of someone's hoodie. I wasn't particularly amused. The other is Greg St. Jean. He accused me of biting his nipple, but I swear I was just trying to stay warm!




Then the biped and I and his gigantic friend Tiny went to Race Point. Another beautiful bonfire and beautiful full moon. Here's me and Tiny and Maria.



One of the bipeds told us that this Harvest Moon was also a moon that receives your fears. You give up all your fears and anxieties to the moon and you replace them with gratitude and love for this planet we all inhabit and that we all must care for.

These are the fears I gave up last night:

Dogs that are significantly larger than me.
Water of any kind.
Plastic grocery bags (in fact, any kind of plastic bag, garbage or grocery, shiny black or opaque or clear).
Going down the stairs.
Strangers.

On the Road Again

The biped decided to go on a little road trip yesterday with his friend, Stephen. As usual, I had no notice until me and my box were thrown in the back of the car. The biped said they were "antiquing". I thought we'd gotten enough of that when he put me in that fleatrap.

The whole idea seems to focus on paying good money for the crap no one else wants. Here's one of the places:


So you just go in and sift through everything. Dishes, silverware, pictures, mirrors, chiffoniers and armoires and highboys and lowboys and crank crank crank. I can only take so much, then I have to go sleep in the car.




Here's that Stephen buying out the house.



He bought so much stuff, I almost had to ride on top of the car. And for all those hours of driving, you'd think the biped would have picked up a little more than this.