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Happy birthday to the Dog. He's my best friend. We met over 20 years ago, in Hawaii, when we were both young punks, in the Navy, living on the island of Oahu (working at Pearl Harbor), enjoying the Aloha spirit. We got along from the moment we met. He lives on the East Coast now, in Hoboken, New Jersey. So I don't get to see very much of him .. like when he used to live up the road here, in Hollywood .. but at least he calls every now & then, usually from his cel while driving thru Manhattan, on his way home. He still makes me laugh and can cheer up my bluest days. We've been calling each other 'Dog' (short for Dogbrother) for over 20 years now: long before it became the fashionable, gangsta-chic tag it is today. They're just copying us. We're the originators. He has moved more times than anyone I know (38 times in the last 25 years). The dog makes the life of a hobo seem stable. He feels at home living in the big city; the country makes him uncomfortable. Back in the day, we'd be hanging out, prowling the streets of Waikiki, at 1AM, and I'd say, "We gotta work tomorrow, dog. You think we should head home?" (We lived on Ala Wai Boulevard, downstairs from two strippers: Sandy & Bambi, who became close friends.) That's when I first heard the line he became famous for: "The night's in diapers!" He ordered me my first flaming bullet. That's a drink containing three shots. One each: 151, Galliano & tequila. The bartender lights it on fire before serving. One takes your legs away. Now he's a vegetarian. Times change. He's the greatest guy .. one of those people everybody likes (unlike me). Wish I was in New York today, to take him out to dinner. Wonder how much a plane ticket to JFK would cost. I miss that Jersey boy. You can read some of his work here. He's currently working on a novel, in his spare time. |
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