As you may know, I was diagnosed with ALS back in March.

ALS is a disease which makes the motor neurons quit working.
Muscles get weak and then stop responding.
Things like walking, talking, eating and breathing soon become impossible.
There is no treatment, no cure, and no hope...unless you help!

There's an ALS walk taking place on November 10th, and I'd be honored if you could attend.
The walk takes place in Irvine, California, so I understand if geography keeps you away.
But, if you're local or localish, and want to help change the course of this stoopid disease, come on along.

Plus, it'll be a great chance to do some public fursuiting!

I have coordinated with the event organizers, and costumes are welcome and encouraged.
It's a short 1 mile walk, and you can stroll half of that if that's too much for your paws.

I'm not asking for anyone to fundraise or contribute $, rather, I'd just like to see you all there
for moral support. Maximum fuzz, plz!

The doctor said I'd be in a wheelchair by June, but I'm still walking, and I plan to do this thing under my own power.
My no-quit attitude exists mainly due to the support I get from y'all, and I can't thank you enough.

Go here to join the team:
http://web.alsa.org/site/TR/Walks/O.....145.1520519562

We're gunna have a great walk, and, once again, with your help, ALS can kiss my fuzzy butt!

After missing a couple of ACs, I'll back this year to screw things up once again.

What is it about this retired steel town that attracts so many pseudo animals
to sweat their biscuits off in mid summer?
Is it the inexpensive parking? The drippy cheese steaks? The joy that comes from
poking all those solid mid-west values directly in the eye?

Dunno. I'll probably never understand why we do what we do, and that's
a good thing, I'm guessing.

The skinny on a skinny mutt:
I'll be flying out of OC early Thursday on SouthWoorst, traveling
in the company of my guard bear.
Guard bears are good. We always get extra snacks.

We arrive sometime on Thursday evening, and then get picked up by another bear.
What is it with these bears? I think they don't trust my sense of direction.
Bears are smart...

I'm staying in the Westin, possibly on a couch in the lobby if the elevator lines are too long.
I'm actually rooming with a normal human; an old friend of mine wanted to see
what a furry convention was all about and has family in that area so off we go.
Poor bastard. He'll never be the same.

The meat of the con, so to speak, will be visiting friends, old and new.
I have no con schedule, and no plans other than to see you all.

This will probably be my last convention, so excuse me if I have too much fun.

I depart on Monday morning, and I already can't stand the thought of saying goodbye.
If you see me, please please say hello and give me a hug.
Once again, I'm only making this trek to see my extended furry family, (even
you great uncle Leo.) It means the world to me and I can't thank you enough
for all the years of kindness.

I'll see you in the Burgh!

I've been to every single BLFC, which explains my twisted world view,
and I'll be be back this year to breathe those Marlboro reds,
confuse the heck out of the pit boss and generally skate on this ice.

What is it about BLFC that is so sinfully good?
Well, it's all the sin, I guess...

This is the best convention going, in my overinflated ego's humble
opinion, and if you haven't been you should put it on your list,
right before naked skydiving or swimming with great whites while wearing
a bologna wet suit.

But I digress. As always.
Here's my conplan, for those of you wanting another Dogbomb tattoo:

I fly out from behind the orange curtain on Thursday, meeting a kitty cat
(who shall remain nameless due to a restraining order) in San Jose where we shall decimate
the airport bar and steal a Segway before sloshing onto a second sneezetube
for the hop to Reno. Southwest assures me the in-seat urinals will be fully functional.
Kitty cats have weak bladders.

Arriving in Reno, I'll be picked up by bears.
I mean literally picked up. I get to ride on the roof!
I'm not allowed in the seats due to the incident last time.

I'm staying at the GSR, because they couldn't get good fingerprints last year, and
rooming again with the ever fabulous and completely ridiculous
 Zarafa and  Scotty_the_Minotaur

These guys WANTED to room with me again, which attests to their advanced state
of mental illness. It's an unhealthy combination of personalities and I don't feel safe.

What does a mutt do at a furry convention?
Hot tub bingo.
Food fights.
Exercise bikes at 5 am.
Walmart parking lot beer fest.
Floaties in the pool. (thong optional)
ALL the concerts.
Panels? Maybeeeee...
Harass my friends and make them carry my stuff while I pretend to be disabled.
Hot tub hot tub HOT TUB dang.

I won't be able to fursuit this year due to not walking reliably, not being able to
swallow or breath right and not wanting to crush you on the escalator.
It's better this way. You'll thank me when you don't go home wearing a cast.

In all seriousness, this will likely be my last BLFC, and that's OK.
I don't know what the future holds, and anything is possible, but I'm
also a realist.
I plan to enjoy the heck out of this thing!

I go to these stupid fur balls to see you all.
There is no other reason.
You're my family and I love you all very much.

Please say hullo if you see me limping around.
It means a lot to me, and I appreciate every kindness that I've been shown.

And if you see my trying to bowl, please gently take the ball out of my hands
and redirect my attention to something cold and wet.
It's safer for everyone.

There's no easy way to say this, but I've already shared my
story on other social media sites, so I figured I'd spill the beans here, too.

About a year ago I started having weakness in my feet and ankles.
It moved into my legs, hands, arms and neck.
After a ton of tests, scans and exams, the doc looked me in the
eye and told me I have ALS.
He gently told me I have between 1 and 3 years left to live.

Not what you want to hear.

Luckily, there was a Mexican restaurant across from the hospital,
so I was able to avail myself of a really good margarita, have some
lunch and think about all this.

My time may be short, but I have a ton of living left to do.

Knowledge is power, and I am lucky that I get to plan for the future.
I've signed up to make a living kidney donation.
I get to tell my friends how much I love them. (over and over until they're sick of me...)
I'm living a normal life, going to work, and doing all the things it takes to keep moving forward.

Every day is a gift and means so much to me.
Even the little things seem very important now.

ALS has no known cause, no treatment, and no cure.
There is no hope.
Unless you help.
If you are able, toss a couple of bucks over to the ALS foundation
so they can continue to research a cure for this stupid disease.
Go here http://www.alsa.org/
Make a mutt wag. Thank you.

As for me, I have no plans of going anywhere anytime soon.
I'll be around to bug you all for a long time.
Don't forget, I love you guys, and you are my family.
I am a lucky mutt indeed!

Against the advice of my psychiatrist, I will once again
darken the doorstep of San Jose for another chance at
making a group of really tall teenage girls ignore my
presence on the elevator.

"If you see one of those weirdos, don't make eye contact."
Good advice, Emily. Fun is for suckers and the weak minded.

But I digress, as usual.
So here's my FC plan, for those of you keeping score...

I'm flying up again this year, because Southwest has a short
memory and I promised to keep the in-flight nudity to a minimum.
Did you know they serve tequila in the airport AND on the flight?

I arrive in SJ in the early afternoon with 5 suitcases, 2 action packers
and a 102 quart industrial ice chest in tow. Hailing an Uber black should be
easy, but convincing the driver to play "The Best of Patsy Kline" on the
way to the hotel is always tricky.

I'm staying in one of the H hotels.
It's a furry convention. I think you all know what the H stands for.

and have reluctantly agreed to let me stay in their room.

Scotty and I will once again be making our famous at-con goat cheese in the bathtub.
Zarafa has promised to teach me the Beer Barrel Polka on trombone.
Everyone gets a whipped cream smile.
The local constabulary has been suitably warned.

So now what? What does one do at one of these unholy gatherings?
I can't speak for others, which would be scary, but here's what I'll do:

Run around the city in the early mornings like a crazy person.
Drink too much coffee.
Dress up like an dog and pretend others respect my life choices.
Drink too much beer.
Saturday night dance at the Fairmont because a melody and lyrics make me wag.
Attend concerts, panels, and other con events? Gosh, I have no clue. As always.

Beyond how I'm getting there, where I'm staying, and how I'm getting home,
I have no real itinerary. I'll spend the entire con in jellyfish mode, getting
carried along by the furry tide to whatever event comes next.
This works well for me because, like a jellyfish, I have only a rudimentary brain.

The whole point of this adventure is to see you all, hug and be hugged, and
to live in the moment for hours on end.
It's good for the soul.

Thank you everyone for making me feel welcome, and for all the love
you've shown me in these past 8 years.
I'm very lucky indeed to be here.

And I promise not to get too drunk to karaoke.

Part One: Merry Muttmas to you, your family and friends. I hope that no matter what you celebrate, this
holiday season is wonderful and bright. Peace on earth, plz.

Part Two: The only thing that matters in this life is how you treat others.
It's your legacy and the one thing that lasts.
Make someone wag or purr or fluff up with the happies today.
A kind word is free.

And now, back to rum and eggnog...

First off: Hey, I went to Califur!
I didn't bring a fursuit, and it was still awesome fun.
How's that for a con wrap up?

Next up is that stinking BLFC.
If you are pure of heart, possess an unblemished soul,
and walk in the light of righteousness, don't ever go near this thing.
The rest of you sinners need to come swing in Reno.
This is the best con going for a million sordid reasons.

I'm finally using a template to describe the imminent debauchery.
You can use it too if you don't mind nagging lawsuits.

Convention Attending: BLFC 2017.

Method of Travel: Southwurst lets me fly free due to that meal trolley
incident over New Mexico. Kink in my tail. Totally worth it.

Arriving: Thursday. I love the check in line.

Departing: Monday. Probably earlier due to "the police."

Hotel: THE GSR SMOKE HOUSE. They tell me the pool is going to be closed.
They tell me the swim up bar is not open. I plan to freak the f&#k out
and demand an upgrade to the Elvis Presley suite.

Rooming With: The judge says I can't have any roommates.
Except party bear. He's not real. But he's real to me...

Panels Attending: My time management skills only allow for panels
if they take place in Walmart or an elevator.

Fursuit?: Yes, I'm bringing all the animal bags. I like being damp,
disoriented and dehydrated.

Hanging With: The furry club. Japanese tourists. That grandma from
Jersey who chain smokes Reds and pronounces my name "Dawgbohm."

Attending Parties?: Only the ones with safe words.

Attending Dances?: I will. Those aren't seizures.

Doing Art?: I always carry a Sharpie. I'll be glad to sign the body part
of your choice.

Con Activities: Running by the Truckee. Pancakes. Wandering the
hallways and asking random folks if I can borrow their toothbrush.

Trades?: I'll trade you a cold beer for your honest evaluation of my
tweets. All of them.

Best Way to Contact Me: Twitter dogbomb1 or wrestle me down
and tie me to a bar stool.

Can I Hug You?: Yes plz. Gropes only for tips.

Comments: My attorney says I shouldn't.

Woof. There you have it.
In all seriousness, I look forward to seeing you all there,
catching up with old friends and meeting new ones.

You guys are good for the soul!

As y'all know, I ain't real smooth.
And I have an exceedingly spazzy dog.
And I'm training for another marathon.
And it rained buckets in So Cal this winter...

Combine these facts, add a pinch of stupid, and
it's a recipe for a puffy paw and a bruised ego,

Marathon training requires one to run a lot of miles.
It's not pretty and there's no science behind it; if
you want to get to 26 you have to put in a few hundred first.

The race is a month away and the running club is slogging
through the long distances. Last Saturday we reeled off 14.2 miles,
mostly on dirt trails, cause it's more fun not to run in traffic.

I take Sender on these runs because I'm trying in vain
to tire him out. Even after 14 miles he's fresh as daisy.
Bastard dog...

So there we were, at mile 7, running down a fairly steep and
rutted dirt trail, me concentrating on staying upright and the
dog concentrating on dog things, when a trail bunny appeared
stage left. Uh oh.

Needles to say, the dog zigged, I zagged, and then I quickly
discovered that flying is better than landing.

After a healthy Pete Rose slide and few front flips, I came to
rest against a friendly Manzanita bush. The dog was gone
but my limbs were still attached. Yay!

Anywho, we found Sender (he didn't catch the rabbit) and
finished out the run, at which point I stopped by the ER to
have my left front paw X-rayed. Two little broken bones,
lots of gravel rash, and an incomprehensible bill.
Co-pay, deductible and satisfaction amounts. Huh?

Doc gave me a splint and a prescription for pain killers,
both if which I ignored. He said I need rest. I'll rest later
because who's got time for that?

I learned that a 53 year old doesn't bounce like a teenager,
dogs will be dogs and it's not fun to run with gravel in your underwear.

But I'm fine. The paw is healing and I am resting it as much as possible.
I have full faith that medical science will allow me to slip my
fursuit paw on by the time BFLC rolls around.

TLDR; I fell over.

It's almost that time again...

I'm a volleyball dad, I swear, not one of those preverts
who dresses in a bear skin and dances with wolves until
even God has gone to bed.

Yup, another FC, and another chance to say super awkward
things on the crowded elevator.

This is my 7th time sweating in the animal bag in downtown
SJ, and I'm getting good at being bad in a good way.

Here's my basic plan, one that will be fraught with problems
but begins with good intentions:

Alighting from OC on Thursday morning, I shall drain the sneeze tube
of its malt beverages, block the aisle with my tail, and flirt with the
captain until they call the air marshal.
Don't forget to tip the flight attendants!

Arriving in San Hose-aaa, I'll mistakenly summon three Ubers, a Lyft
and a yellow cab, and arrive at the Hilton in five pieces.
Yup, that's right. The Hilton this year.
Just because of their clever statuary.

I'm in until Monday, and good Lord I'm sorry about the carpet stains,
the pizza boxes and the random hallway nudity.

Con plans: yeah, riiiight.
I learned long ago that making a schedule is a fool's errand,
at least for me.
I'll stick with the free form screw-it-up-as-you-go approach.

Lots of fursuiting, mostly near the ice rink where I get the best
busking location and the occasional $20.

Dancing at the Fairmont to the live band
with A MELODY AND LYRICS.

Running the streets early Friday and Sunday.
The Surf City Marathon is next month and rust never sleeps.

Eating those hash browns at Peggy Sue's until my
small intestine runs for the door.

Beer! Jacuzzi....

But mostly, I just wanna see y'all, give my extended furry family
a big hug, and drown in the happy vibe that only a fur con can produce.

Hooray, I get to do this all again!
Lucky mutt.

Thank you all so much for always making me feel welcome.

Now, serve, spike and repeat.

Damn you, Reno, you are a siren song dressed in a leather mini skirt.
You spent your Katrina check on implants and you worship Judge Judy.
You smell like an ashtray and you hum Tom Jones songs while sharpening
your fingernails on a broken tequila bottle.
But I still love you...

BLFC is now my go-to con.
It's the best one going, in my humble and rather stupid opinion.
The staff bends over backwards to make the experience fun and
interactive, the venue screams "reality is suspended!" and the
Jacuzzi has a lovely hostess who brings me cold beers while
believing in her heart that I actually do remember my room number.

So you should attend this thing.
It's a hoot,
If you don't' have a roaring good time, I will give you your money back,
and a bar napkin signed by Vanna White.

And now the dumb part; my BLFC meme planner in a nutshell.

I embark from John Wayne's crotch on Thursday morning, stopping in Vegas
to rescue a hooker from an Iowa farm boy drowning in meth, and arriving in
Reno in the early PM. I've got a room at the hotel, so they gotta pick up
my flea ridden butt from the airport.
Ha!

Once (if) I find the correct elevator and alight in my sumptuous suite,
all bets are off.
Really.
I don't gamble 'cause I'm too cheap.
Sorry, crime bosses.

The rest of the con is an unknown.
I'll be a giant dog much off the time, and I'm sorry for that inexplicable odor.
Walmart for beer and a squeaky ice chest.
The hot tub.
Running by the river at some god forsaken hour.
The dances! The elevator!
The elevator dances!

I'm super excited about the fursuit meet-and-greet thingy.
I think having the public come on in and mix with the furs is
absolute brilliance. We'll see if it works out well in practice!

After all that, and a dozen Port O' Subs breakfast sandwiches, it's
back to reality on Sunday night,
Work calls on Monday, but the memories of seeing all my wonderful
friends will get me through.

The ONLY reason that I keep going back to these silly drunk-fests
is for y'all. Thank you for making me feel like part of the family year
after year. It's a gift that I treasure.

Now, who's up for a cigarette and some 2-in-the-morning keno?

A short journal, more for myself than anything else, to
put into words a thought that's been bouncing around my
empty mutt brain for several years now.

So we have these furry conventions, and we get like 1,000
super talented and dang cute performers together under one
roof. A million bucks in fur, countless hours of character
development, and a brilliant display of imagination on tap
for 72 hours.
It's amazing, right?

And what do we do with all this talent?
For the most part, we hide it behind hotel walls, gathering
together in small groups or herding everyone into a short
parade. A parade that takes place for other furries.

It always wrankles me that this level of creativity is
co-opted to a bright spark, burning for the blink of an eye,
behind a closed curtain.

What if we could share this gift with others?
What if we could invite a deserving audience into our festivities?

I wish that there was an afternoon set aside for a meet and greet
between fursuiters and kids. Kids from anywhere. Children's hospitals,
orphanages, battered family homes, or a Sunday school class.
Anyone with an imagination would be welcome.

Yeah, yeah, I know.
Fur cons are full of kinky perverts.

So are Sunday school classes.
So is every single human group.
So what?
We can be G-rated for a few hours.

Yes, it would take a tremendous amount of work, and it may
indeed be a pipe dream, but it's a good dream and all
things that are worthwhile take a certain level of effort and diligence.

This is a loving, accepting, vibrant group, and I wish that
we could share the experience on a broader level.

Thoughts?

Life has been busy and interesting as of late,
and this FC has sneaked right up on me like
a one eyed raccoon stalking a hot pumpkin pie on
a wooden porch swing. During a thunderstorm.
Wearing overalls.

OK, that metaphor mighta got away from me,
but nevertheless I shall forge ahead like a
a one legged Irish coal miner in a... oh never mind.

This FC is the FC of breaking traditions.
I am NOT driving up the central valley this year,
cashing in some Bratwurst Airlines points for a quick
flight instead, so expect the fast food industry
from Lompoc to Santa Nella to wither up and die.
Sorry.

I arrive in fine fettle (drunk and humiliated by that
special TSA search they reserve for the wurst of the worst) on
Thursday evening. Sliding into the Squaremont shortly thereafter,
a shall upgrade to a deluxe suite by charming the staff
with my juggling prowess and offering free boudoir photography.

Once settled in, I'll hit Safeway, the hotel bar, and registration,
cramming Pita Pit cheesy wrappers into my food hole while I
maniacally hug every single person within grabby paws reach.

I am a horrible person and bad dog.
Stay well back.

After that, who the heck knows where I'll be?

The Surf City marathon is just weeks away, so I'll
be hitting the bricks for some long runs in the morning,
providing I can find my shoes under the heaps of
Coors Light cans and mangled fur.

The hot tub!
Oh golly, that's a scene.
The Fartmont ain't got one, so I'll be crashing the
Marrioot's, and I apologize for my emerald green thong.

Blame  teh for excess dogbutt because I always do.

I'm excited about the theme of this year's con:
"Surviving Time in the Joint"
I'm hosting a panel on inmate relations, if you know what I mean.

I'll be at the dances. I'll be wandering around as a giant dog.
I'll be uncomfortably close to you in the elevator.
Some things never change.

I look forward to seeing my extended furry family, and
I can't wait to hug y'all.
Thank you for making me feel welcome year after year.

I love you guys and girls more than that free french fry that
sometimes sneaks in with the onion rings.

Well, almost.

Some folks were born to fursuit.

They slip into their costume effortlessly, never trip over
beer bottles or small children, and are transformed into a
magical, invincible creature in a matter of moments.

They can suit for hours, seemingly oblivious to the muting
of the human senses.

Flips and handstands? Sure.
Bungee Jumping? Why not?
Navigate a crowded elevator? *shudder* Can do.

All things seem possible to these folks, and they believe they
can fly, so of course they do.

Then there's me.
It takes me 45 minutes to get my dog on, so to speak, and
then I spend another 45 in front of the mirror second guessing myself.
Is that ear OK? Wait, is my tail on backwards?!
HOW DID I GET A SPAGHETTI STAIN ON MY PAW?

Then I stumble out into public, crashing into glass doors, running over
anyone under 5'7", and clearing every coffee table with my errant tail swings.

Invariably, I end up walking into the women's bathroom by mistake,
or taking the wrong elevator and going to the 17th floor instead of the 22nd,
where I attend the wrong room party and break a fan as my fat butt misses a chair.

I am not transformed into a graceful, huggable, talking animal.
I don't feel magical.
I just feel like a damp old guy wearing a dead dog.

Don't get me wrong, I LOVE to suit, and I've had some wonderful adventures,
I just don't get why some folks are so much better at it than me.

It's not for lack of practice or planning.
Maybe I just don't "believe."

Theories?

I've always written my own stoopid con journals, but
this year I ripped off this template so y'all could get
a clearer view of why I don't test well.


Where are you staying?
The Westin, or under a table at Tonic.

What day are you getting there?
Thursday evening, if the Gods of Transportation
smile on an easily distracted mutt.

How are you traveling?
Flying in the sneeze toob, spending a few minutes in Vegas,
then flying in the drunk toob to PA.

Who will you be rooming with?
and
I want to apologize to these fine gentlemen for my behavior.
I am really, really sorry about the polka music.

Who will you be hanging with during the convention?
All 6,252 of you.

How is the best way to find you?
Twitter Dogbomb1, yell "hey dumbshit!" or look in the bar.

Are there any panels you might be attending?
There, for the grace of God, go I.

What do you look like?
A cross between Sting and Rin Tin Tin.

Will you be suiting?
Yes. I like to dress up as a giant dog.
It's a sickness.

Do you do free art?
Absolutley!
I'll draw you stuff on a bar napkin or
tattoo your butt cheek with a sharpie.

Do you do trades?
I'll trade you a hug for a hug, and I have
an amazing collection of 19th century
dental implements that I'm hoping to trade
for a ZR1 Corvette.

Do you do badges?
I do! No charge. I'll even laminate it in my studio.
(The bathroom at the bus stop on Penn Ave.)

If you have an Artist's Table, what will you be selling?
I sell nothing. Everything is free.
Even my beer.
It's all yours.
Come by the room and have one with me!

What is your gender?
I thought we had moved past this as a society.

How tall are you?
6'3" in my heels.

Can I talk to you?
You can, but be warned that I never shut up.
Could be an all day event...

Can I touch you?
Yes, you may.
Touching is good, and is the glue that holds
physical beings together as a social unit.

Can I visit your room?
Sure! You can stop by anytime.
I'm always glad to see you.

Can I buy you drinks?
Yes.
I stick to coffee in the morning and beer in the afternoon.
Please don't buy me drinks in the evening because that's
just dangerous.

Can I hug or snuggle with you?
Of course!
I love hugs, and snuggles are just hugs that last longer.

Are you nice?
That is a goal that I struggle to attain every day.

Will you be going to parties?
Only if my parole officer says that it's OK.

If I see you, how should I get your attention?
Wave and say hullo.
Tell me who you are because your badge is backwards, or
I can't read the script, or I'm just distracted.
It often takes me a minute to recognize folks
because there are a ton of you and I have the memory of
a sugar cookie.

Can I come with you for food/fun/etc?
If you are ready for a marathon of goofiness that
ends in Indian weddings or unplanned shoe shopping.

Can I look in your sketchbook?
I have 3,025 images of a mutt shaking hands with John Kennedy,
so if this is your thing then by all means.

Can I draw in your sketchbook?
If you can capture the essence of Camelot.

Can I take your picture?
Yes, just make sure that you get my SAG number correct.
I don't want to get in trouble with the union again.

What are your goals for the con this year?
Same goals as every year:
No goals. These events are a free form vacation for me.
I will run in the mornings, be a giant animal in the
afternoons, and see my extended family as I wander
about.

Thank you all so much for making me feel
welcome and special year after year.

Yeah, having a fur con at a casino is like giving
Jack Daniels and bottle rockets to hyperactive teenagers,
but it does make for a good show.

I arrive via the flying tube on Thursday afternoon, and
depart shamefully on Monday morning, and in between
it's anyone's guess where the hell I'll be.

For sure thingies:
Running the river trail.
Wearing the animal bags.
Beer.
First one in for breakfast at Port O' Subs.
Jacuzzi.
Pool.
Hot tub.
Jacuzzi.
Walmart excursions.
Room party.
Hot tub party.
Walmart party.
Bowling an 86.
Sitting naked on that weird alligator skin chair.

Nopes:
Gambling.
Tiesto. (sic)
Breathing the casino air.
Wedding chapel.
Rabbit show.
Mini bar.
Nipple piercings.

In all seriousness, BLFC has become perhaps my favorite convention.
The staff REALLY cares about the attendees, and it shows.
The venue is amazing and delightfully tacky, and the damn thing
has a swim up bar. So many food choices. The energy is really infectious!

I look forward to seeing a bagload of my good friends there, and equally
to meeting new folks. The only reason I go to these shindigs is to
see y'all.

If you bump into me, please give me a hug and help me
find my way to the correct elevator...

I see it all the time; good folks declaring that "it's time to grow up and leave this fandom."
Suddenly they're gone. All that remains is a fur ball under the bed and a fake tail
tossed haphazardly into a trashcan.

Their story always contains a common thread and it never fails to give me droopy ears.
Seems that there is a pervasive misconception that being a furry somehow makes you
juvenile, irresponsible and unable to become a successful, productive adult.

Even inside the fandom, many believe that being a fur is something to hide from the world
at large. No real names, no sharing this joy with friends and family, reduced to living the fur life in the
shadows of everyday life.

We have some self image issues here, gang.

Let me assure you that this mindset is misinformed at best; it just ain't so!

In my way of thinking, being a furry compliments being a well rounded, contributory member of
society. Who the hell wants to live in a world where adults are reduced to bland automatons, unable to
participate in imaginary thought, scoffing at the dreams of others, never seeing past the wall
of the empirical?

Not me. I want to wag freely and be a talking dog whenever I please.
With whomever I please.
Plastered all over social media if possible...

I want my mind left free to explore, and I want to engage in childish flights of fancy.
I firmly believe that this fandom saved my sanity in so many ways, and I can't imagine life without y'all
and my stupid animal costumes.

Of course, one must keep the blade of silly fun tempered in the heat of hard reality.
You gotta work and work and know when to be real. It'd be fun to fursuit, drink beer
and chase tennis balls all day, but the bank won't accept that as a mortgage payment.

So here's the deal: if you feel like being a pretend animal is holding you back, take a hard look at yourself
and take the time to dissect your life. Reaching your goals may mean that you spend less time browsing
FA and more time taking notes in the classroom, but does it mean that you have to give up cultivating
your imagination?

No.

Life demands balance.
Balance means the scales have equal weight on both sides.
One side is hard work and reality, but the other side is a sweaty guy in a dog costume with an ear to ear grin.

So don't leave.
We love you and want you to stay.
We also want you to be a successful human.

Why not both?

Oh yes, honey, I'll be back at FC for my fifth straight go round.

Here's what's up for a mutt:

I toyed with the idea of flying to FC, but this would negate the wonderful drive
that is the I5 through the central valley of California. Who doesn't love feed lots
and shitty coffee poured by a guy who just got done with the brakes on a '73 Nova?
Besides, there's that Del Taco in Dirtclod that serves beans from the Eisenhower administration.

So I'm recreating my first furcon experience and driving the trusty Ranger.
I think she knows the way.

If I get lost, I have a terrific co-pilot this year in the feline personage of

I hope he's ready for 7 hours of farts and polka music.

We leave on Thursday morning before AM radio wakes up, and we'll be over the Grapevine
before most furries have even gone to bed.

With any amount of luck, San Jose will loom into view sometime in the early afternoon, and
then it's time to play "spot the first fursuiter."
Loser has to change the differential oil in the convention center parking lot.

I'm bunking at the Fairmont this year, because have you seen the toilets there?
Porcelain fine art!

I'll unpack the truck, which may take several hours due to my extensive collection of
medieval armor, two fursuits and three heads, and then ramble to the bar for the
"goddamn I'm really here" beer.

After that, who knows?

There will be several early AM runs, because I have that silly marathon coming up in
February, and I gotta burn off all that beer and ranch dressing.

Dancing at the Fairmont to the live band on Saturday night is a must.
I encourage everyone to come over and jive, swing and sweat.
Fursuits are encouraged; the humans won't leave you alone, but in a good way.

OK, we've covered the drive, beans, beer, polka, armor, toilets and gear oil.
Other than that, it's anyone's guess where the heck I'll be.

If you run into me, please say hullo and give me a squeeze. You have my permission to hug freely.
I only come to these things to see y'all and feel part of this wacky extended family.

I look forward to seeing old friends and making new ones, and thank you in
advance for making this geriatric dog feel so welcome in your midst.

No wet spots on the carpet this year, I promise.

Here's how I'm keeping my greasy paws out of trouble this week:

*Oil change for the Ranger: 5 quarts of Valvoline 5W-30 and a Phram philter are ready for action.
I replaced that damn dash light and everything else is functioning as it should.
Next month I'll flush the coolant and replace the thermostat.
158,000 miles? She's just broken in...

*XL stator: Yup, I bit the proverbial bullet and had the factory stator rewound by Rick's Electric in New Hampshire.
I'm hoping this cures my erratic spark and that the problem is not something I screwed up when I installed
the Poweroll big bore kit. I miss riding that stupid little bike and pissing off the neighbors with 1:00 AM jaunts
across their lawns. Straight pipe? I thought that was factory!

*Husqvarna swingarm: That extended arm is now chromed and ready to install, and I even have new bronze bushings and
the correct o-rings to keep out the muck. Yes, I'm going to need a longer chain, and to have the
brake rod re-sized, but so what? It's Swedish, it's 7 feet tall, the kick starter is on the wrong side and
you don't want to piss off an air cooled 500cc two stroke.

*Donzi outboard seal: My gear oil looks like a vanilla milkshake, so I bought the factory seal kit from some guy named Clem in
Gobblers Knob, Arkansas. Ebay..I'm sure it'll be fine.

*Barbara: Lots of smoochies.

*F350 Electrics: Gunna buy a new battery this morning on my way to work. Yes, the truck is in Arizona, but the battery is here
so that's technically working on the truck, is it not? Detail Nazis.


So that's it! An easy week. What's up in your garage or workshop or dungeon?


TLDR: I've got tons of old crap in my garage.

Hey So Cal furries!

If you've been looking for a fun event to do a little suiting and
interact with the public, I've got the perfect venue for ya'.

My running group, the Orange County Frontrunners, in conjunction
with the service organization Gay for Good, is manning a water station
for the Long Beach International Marathon on Sunday, October 12, 2014.

Yes, that's this Sunday.
I'm a terrible organizer...

We will be setting up our water station at mile 9, which is right on the beach
just south of Belmont Plaza. This water station will service both the half
and full marathons, so we will have a ton of thirsty folks depending on
us for hydration and motivation.

The motivation part is where the fursuits come into play.
Image being greeted by a group of giant bouncy animals as
you enter the middle of the race. What could be better than that?
This is something that literally thousands of runners will never forget.

If you don't want to suit, but still want to volunteer, we are always
in need of extra paws to help hand out water and cheer on the runners.

If you're interested, leave a response here or shoot me a note or hit me up on Twitter.
Or just show up!
This will be an early morning event, and because the streets are closed for the race
we must be parked and at the water station by 5:00 am.

I know, ouch.

But think of the glory!

Anyway, here is a link to the race website: http://www.runlongbeach.com/
Here is a map showing where mile 9 is located: http://runlongbeach.com/wp-content/...../Half-Full.pdf

I anticipate the last runners should be coming through by 9:30 am, so we will break down and leave
after that. You are free to stay as long or a little as you want, based on where you parked and road closures and such.

Note that we are located on Rosie's Dog Beach.
Coincidence? I think not...
.

Another Dogbomb?

I know, it seems excessive, but I am about
to be the proud father of triplets.

I'm a wee bit too excited about this:
http://www.furaffinity.net/view/14234207/

Thank you

Let the beer spilling commence!

I've seen this journal floating around here and there, and I've
enjoyed reading folks' answers, so here's my stoopid version...

We all make assumptions about our internet buddies;
some prove to be dead-nuts-correct and some are wronger than
Sarah Palin at a geography contest.

I think I'm an open book, but that is often not the case.
I met someone at AC who was surprised to learn that I was really a
man. She assumed that I was a female from my writing style.
Who can blame her? I was actually quite flattered.

Anyways, post an assumption that you have about me below
and I will either debunk it or tell you how durn right you are.

Anything goes. I'm super hard to offend.

Just don't assume that my answers will make any sense.

AC is a big, sweaty ball of nervous energy, a hand grenade with
the pin falling out and a fat dog guarding a box of crullers.

It's the single weirdest event going, and I'm gunna drop back
in for another sticky, white knuckle, vodka-at-an-Indian-wedding adventure.

If you've ever set foot in the D. Lawrence Convention Center in early summer, you
know what I'm talking about.
If you haven't, do yourself a favor and dip your body in the idiocy at least once.
I guarantee it's worth the price of admission.

So OK, DB is going to PA. So what?

Well, nothing, really, except that you may want to guard your booze
and bring your running shoes, 'cause I'm dropping into the City of Steel as such:

Thursday morning finds me on the earliest damn flight that Southwerst offers,
and I pity my seat mate as I shout "guess where I'm going?" with wild
eyes and a sloshing Bloody Mary.

I connect in Las Vegas, which is the (cursing ahead) single biggest hunk of shit
airport ever, but that's OK, I've had my shots.
Then it's off to Pittsburgh, where I'll screw up the time zones and get stuck in a
debate on the existence of a deity who may, or may not, influence the
outcome of basketball games with the local Hare Krishnas.

After I unstick myself from the ensuing theistic mess, I'll wander up the tollway
on my thumb, trading malt liquor for miles and sitting next to a greasy trucker
from Abilene named Sonny or Junior who wants to know what those animal
perverts use for condoms.

I hope to magically appear at the Westin around dinner time, and perhaps
pilfer an incoming pizza while pretending that I'm the ever popular DietaryIndiscretionWolf.

I'm rooming with and

You'll understand why they have left the fandom when the stories surface in August.

What will I be doing? How can I stay out of trouble?

I can't, and once again it's not my fault.

If anyone wants to run to Washington Island, meet me in the lobby of the Westin at
7:30 on Friday morning. Other than that, you'll find me where I am, and I'm really
sorry that you had to see such things.

K, after all that is over, and I fly back together on Monday afternoon.

Thank gawd that I'll have an adult present for the trip home.
Last time I ended up in Frankfurt with someone else's luggage and a very large Visa bill.

I look forward to seeing all you dogs, bears, giraffes and other assorted creatures very soon.
I only go to these things to hang with you guys, get a hug, and save up the love for the coming
months of real life.

If you see me, say hullo, give me a hug, and explain what's going on to that nice officer.

I'm a walker, a stroller and a fursuit tourist.
I put a lot of damn miles on my paws, and, unlike my
real life counterparts, my feets wear out.

I have rebuilt my original footpaws three or four times, and with each
ref-furring and re-padding they look a little less crisp.

Now I have a brand new set of paws that are practically virginal and
have only seen soft carpet and clean tile thus far.
But...AC is coming up, and that means some serious
street walking in the city of steel.

What to do?

I've never really liked the look of paw sandals, but I am headed in that
direction now. I need protection from gum, grime and PA rain storms,
and, given my tiny mutt brain, I can't think of any other solutions.

And that leaves me with two questions:

1) What are the other options?
B) Do I make sandals myself or is there a lovely and talented
fur that would whip me up a nice set before AC?

As always, I appreciate your input more than I can say and I love
all y'all's furry butts.

But not in a creepy way.

Well hell, CF 2014 is next weekend, and I'm as ready as
an egg bound hen riding a roller coaster.

This is my journal. Don't disparage my metaphors.

Califurr is always a strange experience.
This convention is so local to me that I can
throw a dead cat from my backyard and land it in the hotel pool.
And, as such, this is the con that doesn't really feel like a con.

Part of the fun of a furcon is the journey; the change of scenery,
the colorful locals and the thrill of seeing friends in differing parts
of the country. Califurrr is still a blast, but on a different level.

Here's whut I'm a-gunna do:

I'll rumble over after work on Friday, fight with the speed bumps and
valets, and then mix it up with the giant animals. I won't be a dog
on Friday, just a skinny old human. I'm taking pictures, drinking beer,
and hugging every poor suiter I can find.
And, I'll fall into the pool "on accident" as always.

Once I wrangle myself out of work on Saturday, all bets are off.
I got me one of those hotel room thingies and there will be behavior
unbecoming of someone who has reached this vintage.

The KROQ folks will be there and you will find me in the lobby with
the groupies and band members and the girls that wear sunglasses at night.
You will also find me wandering the halls, dancing at inopportune moments,
and giggling like kid in a vat of puppies as I see all my friends, both old and new.

Califurrrr. I'm excited.
I get to hang with all my pals again and that means the world to me.
If you see me, please do say hullo and give me a squeezie.

May I drip dry on your carpet?

Yup, it's almost that time;
BLFC is rolling the dice and getting all trampy with it next week.

Serious, last year's con was nothing short of amazing, and that was
the freshman iteration. Imagine the rabbits (no offense, bunnies)
that they'll pull out of their hat this year.

Before I begin my super detailed and riveting con preview, let me
encourage everyone who is able to attend this bugger, either this
year or next, to make the effort and come on down.
I promise you won't find a cheaper, better run and
downright sinful experience anywhere in furdom.

Here's what the Dogbomb is up to:

I'm carpooling with and and a menagerie of sock puppets.

I am the worst passenger EVER. I can get into trouble with a floor mat and a headrest.

We leave So Cal at 3:00 pm sharp on Thursday and arrive in Reno at 3:45. I think that's how it works, anyway.

I'm rooming with the amazing

This will be my first roommate experience, and I hope he doesn't mind feeding the white doves
and pressurizing the hyperbaric chamber.

It'll be the usual con tomfoolery; lots of suiting, a panel or two, and some "dancing."
And maybe a beer. And maybe two 'cause I'm naughty!

I shall be at the gearheads panel on Friday at whatever time they have it down for.
I shall be running Reno, and recovering in a van down by the river, on Friday and Sunday mornings.
I shall NOT be gambling, because I'm super cheap and I get distracted by all the noises and lights.
I shall bowl and eat pizza and spend endless hours debating the merits of resin vs plastic claws.

I'll be hitching a ride with on Sunday morning to check out the Harrah's automotive museum.

I'm gunna scoot on the hood of a Shelby Cobra!

Other than that, I just want to see all my friends, old and new.
Serious, I love my fur family, and there is no other reason to go to
these liver killers than to see my pals, old and new.

Say hullo if see me stumbling about!
I'll give you a damp hug and ask your name three or four times,
but that's only because I love you.

If the hot tub is not open THERE WILL BE ACCIDENTS ON THE CARPET.